


Plus One

by agelade, Caladrius



Series: You're the Reason [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amulet, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Gen, Hurt Sam, Imposter Dean, Merry Christmas, Narrative Style, Stanford Era, Written by Role Play, lots and lots of angst, text fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:55:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caladrius/pseuds/Caladrius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is coming for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****Plus-one  
Setting: Stanford Era, Just before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: [Caladria](http://caladria.tumblr.com)  
Sam: [Agelade](http://agelade.tumblr.com)** **

**Dean**  
` Did u get invited to any coed xmas parties? :-D `  
  
**Sam**  
` yeah `  
  
**Dean**  
` Course u did. Did u go yet? `  
  
**Sam**  
` no, it's tomorrow `  
  
**Dean**  
` Do u have a +1? `  
  
**Sam**  
` um no `  
  
**Dean**  
` Well u do now. Haha `  
  
**Sam**  
` wait`  
` what? `  
  
**Dean**  
` Dude coeds in tiny santa skirts. Invite me. `  
  
**Sam**  
` dean, no `  
  
**Dean**  
` Wat do u mean? I'm not good enough to be a +1? `  
  
**Sam**  
` no, that's not it. just uh. it's like, invite only and stuff `  
  
**Dean**  
` But if I was a hot chick it wuld b ok? Coming to kick ur ass on principl then `  
  
**Sam**  
` dean don't come, please. isn't there a hunt or something? some crappy christmas tree to trim with dad or something? `  
  
**Dean**  
` Who the hell r u an what did u do w my brother? Dad hsnt given a fck abt tress since u were 9 what's goin on? `  
  
**Sam**  
` nothing `  
  
**Dean**  
` Something. Spill sammy. `  
  
**Sam**  
` dean, it's nothing. really. you have to have a million better things to do than come here `  
  
**Dean**  
` R u pissed at me for something? `  
  
**Sam**  
` what, no. Dean, no.`  
` listen`  
` i didn't know you were gonna invite yourself along, okay `  
  
**Dean**  
` Wat does that even mean? U bump ur head? This isnt a xmas prty is it `  
  
**Sam**  
` dean...`  
` there IS no party, okay?`  
` i lied.`  
` i'm not doing anything for christmas. happy? `  
  
**Dean**  
` Y the fuck lie about a party dude? `  
  
**Sam**  
` i didn't want you to think i was sitting around alone. everyone else at school goes home, so there's no one here. i didn't want... i don't know. i know you man, i thought you'd feel bad about leaving me here. `  
  
**Dean**  
` 1st of all u left. And it sucks. But I told u I was comin u tell me not to come but ur sad. What am I missing? I have a GED so go easy on the explanation plz `  
  
**Sam**  
` aaahahah this is ridiculous`  
` you texted me asking if i was going to a party or something. i didn't want you to feel bad for me or feel guilty, so i said yeah. then you freakin invite yourself to the party that doesn't exist. dude, if this were a sit-com, i'd be scrambling to make a party out of thin air right now.`  
` hahaha wow i think you just made my day `  
  
**Dean**  
` jesus sam. Ur a tard.`  
` so no problem if I come an crash a party with MY +1`  
` ?`  
  
 **Sam**  
` you're bringing somebody? `  
  
**Dean**  
` yeah u dumbass. gotta b a party somewhere to crash `  
  
**Sam**  
` oh. oh right. uhm... i don't know Dean. i mean come, yeah, awesome. but we might have to make our own party. like i said, this place is empty `  
  
**Dean**  
` its still cali. beach parties. santa bikinis damn `  
  
**Sam**  
` lol okay man. you come, we'll go out and see if there's a party to crash. but prepare yourself for having to hang out with just me, okay? `  
  
**Dean**  
` u get a long break rite? Lets drink egg nog and go hunting `  
  
**Sam**  
` hunting? Dean... `  
  
**Dean**  
` dont say u dont miss it `  
  
**Sam**  
` i'm trying to do something else here... `  
  
**Dean**  
` so do something else when u have classes. gonna mope n b sad for a month? `  
  
**Sam**  
` no. i was gonna get started on some reading for spring semester. maybe take a january class. anyway there aren't any ghosts here dean `  
  
**Dean**  
` u just havnt looked hard enough because of giant books. `  
  
**Sam**  
` just trust me, there aren't any `  
  
**Dean**  
` u looked. i knew it `  
  
**Sam**  
` yeah because i wanted to be safe. not because i wanted to hunt. `  
  
**Dean**  
` Of course not. u think i dont check stanford papers? just testing u. u pass. gj`  
` Well there was one but then it disappeard `  
  
**Sam**  
` oh was there?`  
` maybe it was attached to a person and that person graduated or something and left `  
  
**Dean**  
` yah sure. `  
  
**Sam**  
` that's probably it. so, just the one ghost? `  
  
**Dean**  
` Did i miss something? `  
  
**Sam**  
` no, guess not. like i said, no ghosts here. `  
  
**Dean**  
` How boring guess we'll have to travel to find some `  
  
**Sam**  
` you can't just have fun with me without hunting, huh `  
  
**Dean**  
` Give me alterntives then im a fun fun guy `  
  
**Sam**  
` we can still look for a party. we could watch a movie. we could go on a hike. we could do actual christmas, cooking and everything. `  
  
**Dean**  
` we can do all those AND hunt lil bro `  
  
**Sam**  
` yeah but WHY? can't you just take a night or three OFF? `  
  
**Dean**  
` U wanna let people die at xmas sam? `  
  
**Sam**  
` dean, we're not the only people who do this, okay? i think after all the years, after everything we've given up for this job, you are allowed a week of vacation okay? even doctors take vacation. `  
  
**Dean**  
` Seeing u in cali is my vacation dude n I can't call it that. Gotta sneak off w reason `  
  
**Sam**  
` so make something up! `  
  
**Dean**  
` has lying to dad EVER worked sam`  
` or at least worked out well `  
  
**Sam**  
` you can do it dean. come on. i thought you were like totally awesome or something. `  
  
**Dean**  
` easy for u to say`  
` And i dont kno how its easy for u to say `  
  
**Sam**  
` yeah, it's easy for me to say i don't want to lose my brother or my dad to hunting. that's really easy for me to say. is it easy for you to say you don't care if you leave me alone in the world? `  
  
**Dean**  
` wtf r u talking about? Give me some credit not gonna die and u were the1thatLEFT `  
  
**Sam**  
` you keep saying that like it has some bearing on your safety or whether i'll be upset about it, or whether you and dad dying will leave me alone. newsflash, dean. if you guys get yourselves killed, it won't matter WHERE i am, okay? i'll have nothing. all i'm asking is that you give me a week's worth of sleeping easy. take a break, PLEASE. `  
  
**Dean**  
` sam u were part of the team. Thought u knew that. `  
  
**Sam**  
` i knew that. but i didn't want to play anymore, dean. and i'm not asking you to quit, and you can't ask me not to worry because neither of us are wired that way. but i wish you'd just come here for christmas and take a break. `  
  
**Dean**  
` well im comin. u better hide all the papers n feed me lots of beer. christmas for me would be a bro hunt 4 old timesake but cantjust say no to u when u say please. `  
  
**Sam**  
[a couple of minutes go by]` okay then. good. okay. so i'll see you tomorrow? `  
  
**Dean**  
` Gonna swipe Goonies from someplace. U remember that 1? `  
  
**Sam**  
` lol I do, yes. `  
  
**Dean**  
` U loved it don't say u didnt`  
` To fill a week we may have to wat it 56776556 times `  
  
**Sam**  
` i'll think up stuff for us. don't worry. i'll show you around campus, the library, the town. `  
  
**Dean**  
` Oooooyay the library! `  
  
**Sam**  
` Shut up Dean, it's cool. `  
  
**Dean**  
` Can we check out books together? Best bro week ever `  
  
**Sam**  
` hey man, if we were doing a hunt together, half our time would be spent in the library anyway. you're getting off way easier this way. `  
  
**Dean**  
` U got the internets thingy`  
` Anyhot librarians? `  
  
**Sam**  
` I'm not saying we have to camp out there. Just, I can show you my like... life or something. I don't know. `  
  
**Dean**  
` If ur life includes hot nerdy blondes w glasses Im in `  
  
**Sam**  
` I'm sure we can scare some up `  
  
**Dean**  
` Ok finishing up a thing then b over 2morrow. `  
  
**Sam**  
` okay, i got some errands to run too. i'll see you tomorrow!`   
  
_Sam hangs up and looks around his apartment. It’s an uncharacteristic mess; Dean would laugh at him, at how far his neat-freak brother has fallen. Sam grins. Can’t have that. Over the next few hours, he cleans and makes his plans. Food for the fridge, because Dean will cook if there’s something to throw together and Sam kind of misses Dean’s kitchen sink style of cuisine. Whatever Christmas decorations he can find on the bare shelves of the grocery store, pitiful though they may be. He’s going to wrap that stupid thing he got Dean but never expected to be able to give him, a Stanford teeshirt even though he knows Dean will never wear it unless he’s got something over it. A ton of beer.  
  
And a simple, safe, EASY hunt for them to laugh through, like old times, for Dean. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean (and all others): Caladria  
Sam: Agelade

Sometime later that night, Sam's phone rings. ID says "D".

Sam snatches up the phone from the coffee table and grins as he answers the call.  The scene is set for the next day, the food’s in the fridge, the piddling Christmas crap he was able to find -- after an intense struggle with some neb in an ugly sweater in the grocery store’s bare holiday section -- all hung.  Apartment clean, movies rented, beer stowed, and a little hunt for a little ghost that hasn’t even killed anyone yet all lined up.  “Dean! Everything okay? You're still coming tomorrow, right?”

The voice on the other end is not Dean's.

"Sam..."

It's far deeper. Quieter.

Sam goes cold, swallows. "Dad. Where's Dean."

The voice on the other line doesn't change. "You were expecting Dean?"

"Yes, sir. Funny thing about caller ID--"

"A visit, son. You were expecting Dean to visit." His voice is softer. There is something like a sigh at the end of it, though John Winchester doesn't "sigh."

Sam is at war. Everything in him is fighting to tell Dad to fuck off, that Dean is like 22 and can do whatever he wants, that they aren't Dad's little soldiers, that he doesn't _own_ them goddammit. But Dean's said it a few times, that Dean's the one who has to deal with Dad, and it's kind of the least he can do, but it's going to make things hard -- but he isn’t afraid to lie to Dad.  "A hunt. _I_ called _him_ , okay? Because of a hunt. Is... everything okay?"

John's voice changes tone, an indication that Sam is in dangerous waters. "If you were so eager to hunt at school, you coulda been here, Sam. You coulda been here where you were a part of this _family_. This _team_."

"Not eager, Dad. It fell in my lap. I don't want to hunt it. Why do you think I called Dean?" The lie feels good, for now; Dean wasn't wrong, lying to Dad never ends well. But for now, Sam’s angry and he's worried and the lie makes him feel like he's in control of _something_. "Where is he, anyway? And why are you calling me on his phone. And hey. Why are YOU calling me at all?"

"Because you should know, Sam." He's quiet for too long. "Because something went wrong. Dean's not coming.”  There’s a beat as the words disintegrate into the receiver.  “He's not coming tomorrow. He's not coming ever, Sam." It's hollow, flat. Distanced. As if the distance is important to say the words. As if he isn't already distant enough.

Sam can't breathe. Sam can't breathe. And he knows now -- he was blinded with pissiness before, but he remembers now, that Dad had _told_ him the next time he called it would be to tell him Dean was dead. But it can't be true. They _just_ talked -- he _just_ talked to Dean earlier that day. "What--" He swallows. Dad sounds distant, but Sam can't manage that, he never has been able to. But he needs to know. "What happened?"

There is an intake of breath on the phone. "Some kind of hellish she-spider. A nest of them. Weren't ready for the numbers because they hid those. Got 'em all with fire and and machetes. But Dean got bit. Bit bad. Didn't know till we were out. Didn't know it was damn lethal until he stopped breathing... " John's voice cuts off. Mid sentence. It continues into silence.

Sam's head is whirring, breathing seems hard, but it's also coming too fast too easy, and he has to sit down when his knees buckle anyway. "When was that? There's gotta be an anti-venom. Keep doing the CPR, I'll work from here, Dad--"

"It's too late, Son. It's too late. Dean's gone. My boy is gone." And there is a sound on the other end, like a hand going to a face, a mouth, watery eyes. "Your brother's gone."

_Your brother's gone._ Gone. No. No. _No_ \-- Sam hangs up the phone. Scrolls through his contacts. Calls Dad's actual phone. Waits.

In three rings, Dad's voice picks up. "It's real, Sam. It's me. I warned you. When you left, I warned you."

Sam closes his eyes, and he's crying and he doesn't fucking care. If Dean is gone, then he doesn't fucking care. His voice is shaking with anger and grief and he doesn't fucking _care_. "You warned me? Our whole life was a warning. A warning that this life would kill us and everyone we loved. So I heeded that warning, and you didn't." He takes a deep breath that shudders through him. There's no reason to lie anymore. There's no reason to try to keep up even a tenuous grasp on his family anymore. No reason to hold back. But he's almost wistful when he says: "He was coming here for Christmas, he promised not to hunt for a week so that I could sleep without worrying about him. Just today, he said he'd suffer through a week with me, just hanging out. But you." Sam breathes through the anger. "You got my brother killed. You better hope we never meet face to face again, you bastard."

"That's it, Sam. You tell yourself this is my fault. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself you wanted to _save_ Dean when you left. That you could help him by leaving this family. If that's what will get your through the night, you do it. Do it and be damned." And John's voice is the coldest Sam has ever heard it. Cold reserved for That Thing That Took Your Mother.

"Nothing will get me through the night, _Dad_. Not anymore. But you go ahead. Put this on me. That's Dad-protocol, right? Shove whatever guilt you feel for dragging _children_ into this life onto the one you _didn't_ get killed? Yeah. Don't expect to hear from me again."

Sam hangs up the phone without listening to another word. Dad's right, he feels the weight of guilt like it could drown him, _should_ drown him. But it can't be true, and even though it's not like Dad wouldn't have said those terrible things to him -- he's said those things and more -- but Sam wants to believe that now of all times, Dad would hold back. Sam sinks back into the couch, a couch Dean slept on just a couple of weeks ago. The door Dean had fixed. The laptop he'd replaced after swearing he didn't owe Sam shit. The table leg he'd screwed back on. Everything seems stopped; Sam feels stopped. Dazed. Heavy. Sick.

Dull. He lifts his phone and scrolls through the contacts again. Presses dial. This can't be possible. He'd know if Dean was dead. He'd know. So. It's not true.

The gruff voice answers. "Sam?" And it's Bobby. And it's too soft for whatever time of night this is. It's too gentle.

"Bobby--" His voice breaks, but he steadies. "Bobby. I need you to find Dad, check for possession or something. Can you do that?"

"Sam." There's a pause. "Sam, your daddy's right here. He's in my house, son. It's not...God I wish it was. I wish I could..."

"No. No I would know. Bobby, please--" Sam pulls the phone from his ear so he can compose himself. But he can't, he can't keep it together, not when it's Dean. It's minutes later when he can breathe again, speak again, and there's pressure in his head and he can't think and he feels drunk, but he brings the phone back up and his voice is raspy and tense like a wire straining to hold everything together. He says: "Wait for me. Before you burn him. I'm coming."

Silence on the other end, and then there's a hand over the receiver and talking--muffled, loud talking. And then Bobby's voice again. "You're welcome here, Sam. You know that. And we...well, just come then. Come when you can. You should know though...son. We...couldn't wait. There was...there was a problem. Gotta believe me, there weren't no choice, Sam. But I'll be damned if you have to get here and find that out."

"What?" His answer is sharper than he means it to be, at least with Bobby. "No. What _problem_ would mean you had to do _that_?"

"Somethin' in whatever that thing spit into him. It was...it...Sam, I don't want you to have to imagine this on your own brother but, it was...using him to grow...more of its own kind." Bobby's voice chokes off. "Wasn't good, Sam. Wasn't right. Your brother wouldn't have wanted..." he shudders to a stop, then rallies. "It wasn't what we wanted, not what your dad wanted either. We tried to wait but...Sam, believe me and just...don't ask no more questions about that part."

"Fuck-- Sorry." Sam closes his eyes again. Over. It was over. Dean-- "Bobby, I gotta go. I gotta-- There's one thing, please. I don't know if, but even if you didn't, it should be in the ash-- it should be there. There's a charm, remember you gave it to me to give to Dad like a million years ago. Can you send it to me? I can't. I can't come, I just can't. But can you send me that? Please?"

"Yeah. Yeah I can do that, Sam. But look, please, you gotta...I mean I know you boys were real tight. It ain't even the word, and I know this is all...and this..." His voice trails away. "But, Sam, you gotta know your brother was a hero, okay? This is...Christ." He stops, clearly unable to go on.

Sam is quiet a moment. "You think I don't know that? I know that, Bobby. I gotta go. Take care of yourself Bo--Bobby. Put that thing in the mail."

"I will, Sam. I swear. I will. Call me later. Sometime...anytime."

Sam hangs up. The phone slides to the floor. He slides to the floor. He wants to break something, but his limbs won't do what he says. One of his hands is still on the arm of the couch, where just a couple of weeks ago, Dean rubbed blood into the fabric. He thinks it's still warm, he thinks this whole place still smells like leather and beer and the road, he thinks the world can just go to hell, he thinks there's nothing beyond his front door. Not anymore. He leans forward, he's going to be sick, he beats on the coffee table, again, again, and at the end of some amount of time, it's in splinters and his hand is aching a dull distant throb.


	3. Chapter 3

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: Caladrius  
Sam: Agelade

The pounding on the coffee table. The pounding. The pounding...the pounding...

And then the sound changes, watery, morphing into something hollower...further away. And it's not a pound, it's a knock...

Sam wakes up. And from somewhere there's a knock. Maybe. Or it wasn't. But his eyes are open and he's on the floor.

Sam closes his eyes again. He doesn't know how long he's been asleep on the floor, he doesn't know how many days or hours or minutes it's been since the world exploded or vanished or whatever happens when your life is over, and he doesn't care either. If he pretends to not be home, maybe -- fuck that. He's _not_ home. There's no home.

In the silence there’s a scratch and a click, barely perceptible, and then the door opens softly. There's no more sound, but Sam's body feels a heaviness moving on the floor boards. Somewhere.

He tenses on reflex, catalogs where the weapons are -- but he's at school. So he's got a knife under his pillow. He's got a gun stashed in the kitchen. There used to be something in the couch cushions, but -- so, okay. Weaponless. He could go hand-to-hand. Whatever it was, it crossed over the salt line, had to pick a lock rather than break down the door, so he has a chance-- and that's as far as he gets before he realizes he doesn't care if this thing kills him, because the scent of leather and beer has hit him again full force and he can't pretend to be passed out anymore. He opens his eyes to see what's about to put him out of his misery.

No axe falls. No threats are made. That strong smell comes closer and then there’s nothing quiet about the boots on the floor as they move. And then the smell is on Sam. Around him. Pulling him up.

"Jesus Christ. Sam? Sammy?! What the fuck... _Sam_?"

It's Dean's voice. It's the one he doesn't use often because he knows it projects panic, not authority, but Jesus Christ what the hell? He thought Sam was sleeping on the floor but he's fucking _bleeding_ and his hand...

What the hell? He was going to surprise Sam, get in hours earlier than he expected. Start the party with Sam's face looking all annoyed that he hadn't had time to make his _plans_ but what the hell is this? What the actual fuck?

Sam blinks, and his first thought is _dream_? but no. The coffee table is in pieces, his hand feels stiff and numb. He pulls back from this thing wearing Dean's face and his heart is clawing up his throat along with last night's hasty dinner, and he's stepping away. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam, yeah. Holy Christ, Sam," but Dean won't let him get far, because what the hell? Scenarios go through his head. Ghost possession? Hell no. Sam would never... and then maybe someone else? Like, _human_? But the door was perfectly intact. And yeah, _he_ had picked it but...no...

...But the goddamn coffee table...it wasn't exactly oak. Had likely been a dumpster dive treasure, but... shit. Shit!

He grabs Sam's wrist. The hand is a mess, and Sam is clearly dazed.

"Sammy, hey? Hey!" He grabs his shoulder with his other hand, trying to ground him, get him to focus. "Who the hell did this to you? What happened?"

Sam's eyes go wide at the pain in his hand, at the touch of this thing grabbing him. But his knife is in the bedroom. There's a silver coin in his pocket -- Dean's stupid habit that Sam had never dropped -- but if he exposes this... whatever it is, before he has a weapon, he's a goner. _Why does he care, why does he care?_ "Nothing," he gasps. "Nothing happened. Let me just go change real quick, okay? You just... stay here."

"What? What! No. Sam. Hey!"

Something... is definitely not right. Sam's too calm for a guy who's bleeding, who's coffee table is all smashed and...

He grabs Sam's wrist tighter, wished there was more light in here but, Christ, is there _wood_ sticking out?

Did _Sam_ do this?

He looks up at his brother's glassy eyes, his face. It's not right but he's not... freaking out?

Dean feels the blood slide from his face. This is all just... _wrong_. He glances around, hoping for a clue, any other clue, to whatever this is.

"Sam, you tell me what's goin’ on." His voice is quiet. "You're scaring the shit out of me. Say something that makes sense or I swear I'm dousing you in holy water."

Sam turns away, just a bit, like if he can look at this thing from a different angle, it'll sound less like Dean, look less like Dean. "You first," he bites out.

Get a grip, Dean. There's a logical explanation and Sam's got it and he's gonna give it, but first some goddamn _light_ in this place, and then check those salt lines and then. And _then_ it's gonna make sense. Christ. This could have been like a bad dream, but Dean isn't sure who had the nightmare.

"Okay, Sam. Okay." Dean leans over slowly, turns on a lamp. "I thought I'd surprise you, get in early. Let you defend your castle a bit and then start the week festivities, right? You... remember I was comin', right? We did have that conversation about... twelve hours ago? I finished the job. Had to get cleaned up. Told Dad I'd do some research about a thing. Took off. Here I am." He pats his chest. "Sam...you remember all of that, right? Jesus. Your hand, dude. Okay I said my thing. You say yours."

“My thing?”  With the light on, he looks even more like Dean, the glitter of living eyes, the stubble of an all-night drive. Sam glances down at the table again and at his own hand when Dean mentions it, but then back up at Dean. His mouth forms nonsense as logic wars with a need to just rip the bandaid off. But then he blinks and tears fall and it's hopeless and he doesn't care if this thing kills him anyway. He looks at the floor so he doesn't have to watch Dean murder him, breathes:

"You're dead."

Dean blinks.

Oh. Okay. Okay now. Now things start to kind of make sense kind of but. But Jesus. Bad dream then? Majorly majorly majorly bad. Very real. What the hell...too real. Or. Okay, _Christ_ Sam is in shock. That's what this is. Exactly what this is. Fuck. Okay. He combs his head for emergency med procedures. If Sam was in shock after a bad run in with a fugly, then Dean would be getting him on the ground, elevating his head, getting blankets, water...but this Sam doesn't even think he's...

Fuck it.

Gotta get the kid calmed down. He reaches his hand around to the back of Sam's head. "Okay, you had a bad dream. A dream, Sam. It's me, and I'm not dead, okay? Come on. Let's take a deep breath." Dean takes one and he doesn't know which one of them needs it more. "Come on. Just trust me."

It takes Sam a minute for him to understand that the hand on the back of his head isn't trying to kill him, takes a minute for him to sort through, and he feels short of breath and way too warm like he might be sick, but then he ducks away from Dean's hand and his own are up in front of him like he's ready for a fight, and he wants so badly for this to be Dean somehow, for Dad and Bobby to have been wrong, but he can't think how that's possible. "Don't touch me. Just. Kill me if you're going to, but don't fucking _play_ with me."'

Dean's eyes go tight and hard, and not because Sam _still_ thinks he's dead. Okay, yes, because he thinks Dean is dead but _this_ is his response? To some, what, some fugly shapeshifter who might be actually about to kill him?

"Hey." And it's not nice and comforting now because Dean doesn't like where this is going. "Hey!" He pushes Sam in the chest. "What the hell, Sam, you think I'm dead and you're just gonna go _die_? What the fuck is this? You think I'm gonna let you just fucking _end it_ if I kick off? And I'm _not_ gonna die, but Jesus, Sam, get a grip, I can't even..."

He's pissed and desperate and...okay, fuck. He's not thinking straight. He's not, and Sam's not, and _some_ one has to keep his shit together.

"Shut up. Shut up. Be whatever. Resigned to die. Fine." He pushes Sam down onto his couch, grabs the thrown blanket over the back of it and pulls it over Sam. Because, Christ, if he can get Sam out of the shock, he'll be thinking right and _then_ Dean can fucking punch him for this reaction.

Sam watches this Dean thing tuck a blanket in around him. He's shaking a little now that this thing doesn't seem like it wants to kill him immediately; he doesn't have to face death all stoic like. So he watches. Let this thing try to be Dean. Fine.

Dean's working fast in case Sam tries to fight. But, goddamn, he wishes he'd _try_ to fight, and Dean feels sick, but he tells himself Sam's not good, and that's why. And they are gonna have a long long long probably ugly talk about this, And, fuck, Sam was clearly all geeked out for the visit, and the end of that hunt had been touch and go and how he managed to get away from Dad so fast--

Dean works with this limp Sam-thing, tries not to think maybe that his little brother is gonna lose it again. That he's gonna go back "there," to the comatose land he was in when he was ten. Because that place was too scary, for both of them. And fuck. Maybe--

"Hey, Sam. We were gonna do stuff like watch movies and drink beer. You were gonna show me around the library, right?"

He tucks in the blanket. He all but cocoons Sam. He lifts Sam's head carefully and puts a pillow under it. Gets a couple for his feet. And he's not worrying about the hand right now because, fuck, Sam doesn't care about the hand. Dean needs Sam to talk. Fucking _needs_ it like air.

"Tell me about the hot nerdy girls around here, Sam. Just talk. Say something."

Dean finishes his handiwork and looks down at Sam. He's doing everything right for this for now, but when Dean takes a breath, it's hard. To breathe. When Sam doesn't want to breathe.

Sam can't watch this thing in Dean's skin move around pretending to care. But the thing is, it feels so real that he's half-tempted to let the charade continue, like if he can pretend too, it'll be almost like having Dean back, because it clearly knows everything Dean did. Any shapeshifter monster worth its _salt_ can read minds -- Sam almost laughs at his own joke. Whatever. The Dean-thing does a damn fine job of tucking him in, and the temptation is there, to let this go and make pretend. But he thinks of bones and ash and a golden charm heading his way in the mail, and he doesn't think he can--

Fuck. Sam opens his mouth, can't breathe, can't -- He stares at the amulet swinging against the Dean-thing's chest. Maybe Bobby hasn't looked through the ash to find that it isn't there. Would anyone but Sam even notice? Or maybe-- He licks his dry lips, tries to make his voice work: "Where did you get that?"

Every thought in Dean's head stops flat. Because Sam shouldn't be asking this question. This isn't...it's not like they ever talk about it, okay, but it wasn't something that needed to be talked about. And if Sam doesn't even remember the fucking amulet...

But Sam's watching him in this careful way, and it's not all the way dead or gone or curious or anything but careful. Not even hopeful (fuck) and Dean gets it: Sam hasn't forgotten--this is a _test_. Right. Because Dean's dead and he's not Dean and...

Just... just fuck.

But this is a good sign, that he's questioning. That he isn't gonna just sit by and let life happen. Okay, yes. The breathing is bad, and he's full out in shock still and he needs water and someone to fucking care about his hand which is probably bleeding, full of splinters, possibly broken, but _Dean_ needs Sam to know he's not _dead_ okay? So that's why he's not gonna rush to the sink to get water or to get the med kit for the hand.

Dean's kneeling next to Sam. He reaches up to that pendent and holds it. Fists it hard until the edges of it imprint themselves in his nerves. Helps him get a word out that's level.

"This thing? Yeah. Funny story about this. Because it wasn't even supposed to be mine, see? This little kid thought he was gonna give it to his Dad, and that shitty year he found about..." Dean didn't expect the gut-punch feeling. Because they didn't talk about this, and they never _had_ to. And he's supposed to be saying _you_ in this story, not _this little kid_ , because he's trying to convince Sam it really is him. But even this distance is hard to tread. Not now. Not when Christmas is a couple days away and Dad’s been so distant, again, and it's turning out to be another shitty Christmas.

He puts a hand to his mouth. It helps him think. Process. Get it together.

"That little kid found out about monsters."

Goddamn. Dean had forgotten how scared Sam had been then, those quiet tears. And then his text yesterday.

_“newsflash, dean. if you guys get yourselves killed, it won't matter WHERE i am, okay? i'll have nothing”_

Fuck.

"Yeah, and all I got that little kid was a Barbie and sparkly baton. Kinda sad. And apparently I still give that kid shitty Christmas presents. Like the one this year, for example. When he thinks I'm gonna die. Thinks I’m _dead_."

He tries to kinda scoff at the last part, but it sounds like a fucking _sob_ and that just isn't cool. At all.

Sam narrows his eyes and curls a lip in disgust.  Dean-not-Dean is talking, and these aren't things Dean would _ever_ say aloud, there are reasons they don't talk about it, so this monster has screwed up, and Sam doesn't want to hear the origin story, okay? He wants to know the ending. Needs to know it. He grits his teeth, there's steel in his eyes. "I mean. Did you steal it from him? Before or after you killed him? What's the game here? Dad knows Dean is d--" Breathing is hard. "Dead. You can't take his place. So what do you want?"

Dean's jaw opens. Just a little. He stares at Sam, and this isn't a fucking joke. And this can't just be the product of a bad dream because, hello, Sam's been awake for at least five minutes now and he's holding on. Dammit. _Holding on_ to this _lie_.

Dean takes a breath. He nods sharply. "Okay. Here's what I want. I want you to wake the fuck up, Sam. How's that? Huh? I want you to want to believe I'm _alive_ and give me that instead of telling me I'm dead."

He unceremoniously slides a hand under the cushions of the couch and feels around for anything that's off. A hex bag or something. Anything.

Sam manages to look pissy when Dean jostles him looking under the couch cushions, but with Dean distracted, he throws the blanket off of himself and onto Dean, and leaps over the end of the couch to hurtle down the hall to his bedroom, where he knows there's a silver knife that can out this fugly.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean swears, pulling the blanket off. Right. Good. This is fucking fantastic.

"Sam? Seriously? Jesus."

But Dean's losing him more every second and it's not good not good not good. There had to be something. Something here, some clue.

Dean runs back to the door. Sam had told him last time about the salt line under the floor boards, and they don't show any signs of having been disturbed. No strange smells (maybe some vanilla like candle). He checks the floor, the lintel, the remains of the coffee table just to make sure there's nothing marked into it. The whole sweep takes less than 30 seconds, but nothing. Nowhere.

Fuck.

There was really only one last option. Sam had said that Dad knew, which meant in this... hallucinightmarewhatever, he must have talked to Dad.

Dammit. His cover was going to be totally blown. Completely.  And Dad had been so _off_ since November, but every second Sam thought Dean was dead was another second Dean _died_.  And really, if he couldn’t be alive somewhere in the world for Sam, what was the point of his life?

Fine then.

He calls from the living room. "Sam? You said Dad knew, right? Then...call him. Call him now. Check for yourself."

Sam is pressed against the wall just beside his ajar bedroom door, blade in hand. But not-Dean isn't coming after him. No, he's wandering the living room, and when Sam sticks his head out, not-Dean is coming back up from crouching at the door. Which is... odd. Sam eases out of the room with the knife; he hasn't been great at left-handed combat, but he’s passable, and all he needs was a swipe so he could know for sure. He slides along the wall in the hallway toward the living room. "I talked to him last night. Bobby too. They burned him. There's nowhere for you to hide that they won't find you."

Dean laughs sadly. "You're pretty much right about that at least..."

Goddammit. There would be some serious hell to pay with Dad after this. Sam would never come up in the conversation, but Dad would have his say just the same. Whose idea was it to lie to Dad? Oh right. This smart guy right here who thought he was dead.

Awesome.

"Come on then." Dean throws his hands into the air and falls into the couch. If it wasn't a hex, then this was Sam 20 ways from freaked out. Note the coffee table.

"Come on. Do the tests. I know you've got the knife. Get your holy water. I'm here for a week, Sam.  Oh, and _Christo_. So there's that."

Sam frowns. Sidles into the kitchen to grab a bottled water from the fridge and tosses that at the thing wearing Dean’s face. "Drink. Then hold out your arm." He brandishes the knife. But this thing is acting weird, and if it's so confident about the tests, then maybe it knows it won't react. If its a fox -- uh, fenix -- it'd only react to copper. But they were rare, and it was too warm here for them to live, so --

Dean catches the bottle one-handed. He opens it up and chugs the stuff. It's fairly fresh, actually. Fresher than Dean would have thought. Which meant it had been replaced recently. Which meant...

Sam _had_ been hunting. Of course he had.

Dean makes an elaborate "Ahhhhh" after his generous swig. He screws the cap on and slides his jacket/shirt sleeve up enough to bare arm skin and makes an upturned fist like he's ready to give blood to the local blood bank. He looks at Sam expectantly, and it's kind of funny how Dean's not worried that his brother could just try to stab him with it through the heart.

But no, as good as Sam is, Dean would never let his little brother have that on his conscience.

Sam watches him carefully as he drinks, looking for a sign, something to let him know what kind of _thing_ this is, and he's worried about how it's not trying to make a move, not worried about the tests. When it holds out its arm, Sam comes in tense, on high alert, watching and wary and relying on instinct that has been wired in from childhood. He nicks the arm just barely, because he can't, apparently, make himself hurt something that looks like Dean anymore than he has to, and he watches for a reaction, holding his breath and ready to fight.

But there's nothing, and breath comes back hard and quick and he has no idea what this thing is but it can't be Dean. Dad would know. And yeah, okay, he said some stuff to Dad last night, but he needs help. "Okay. Okay, fine," he says. "We'll call my Dad, like you said."

Despite everything Dean had thought five minutes ago, his gut clenches at this. Because if Sam calls--

Dean considers giving in. Saying 'do whatever you want' because this aching pit of being dead, of Sam's bizarre clinging to the unfact of it, is tearing him up and making him feel... not like himself.

But Dad has fucked up a lot of Christmases, and Dean is out here for a week and now Dad's going to find a way to end this somehow and Dean would die for Dad. He worshipped the man. Loved, adored, and _hated_ him sometimes, but no.

Dean is fast. He’s up on his feet in a heartbeat, his hands roughly push Sam backwards.

"Seriously, Sam? You ran all the tests. Can you not _feel_ this?"  He pushes Sam again. "Or this? Huh? How's that for you? Still feel dead?"

He's pushed Sam twice before Sam can manage to react to it, but then he's got the knife out in front of him. "Back off." His phone is on the floor where he dropped it last night, under the broken pieces of coffee table. He doesn't bother telegraphing his actions, because if this thing has even the slightest bit of Dean's savvy, it'll pick up on that. So he dives blind, to the right and down, fishing until his hand closes on the phone.

Dean seethes. Forgot how fast the kid could be, and of course the phone is at the finish line, home base, and Sammy is going to throw himself into THIS wall too.

Dean's not afraid of the knife, but he is _aware_ of it as he tackles Sam at the one yard line.

"Goddammit, Sam. _Please_!"

But Sam is all long limbs and even with Dean tackling him, knocking the breath -- _what breath_ \-- out of him, he fishes it out of the wreckage and keeps it out of Dean's reach. His hand throbs, but that's shelved, he just needs to hit redial. It'll get Bobby, but Bobby's probably better anyway. He's kicking at Dean trying to grapple with him as he stares at the phone to find the stupid button -- who even uses that button for real -- and then it hits him what he's looking at.

Gibberish.

Where there should be evidence of conversations from last night. A string of symbols that don't make phone numbers.

Dean's about to put Sam into a full nelson because he _stopped for a split second. Careless move, bro_ but Sam's ceased moving for much more than a second... and Dean halts. He can see the phone readout.

It's creepy. Really creepy. Like something out of psychological thriller.

"The hell?"

Hastily, too shaky and so fast he almost drops the damn phone, Sam checks the call log. Nothing. Nothing since talking to Dean yesterday afternoon. He can't breathe. He feels like he's floating. The phone drops from his fingers. A dream. It had to have been -- but the table, and waking up on the floor -- it's the most vivid dream he's ever had, and sleepwalking? Sleep... breaking? Is he breathing? He doesn't feel like he's breathing. "Dean..."

"Sam?" Why does it feel like he's just walked in the door. "Hey, hey. Hey. Am I alive? Hey?" He half turns Sam and half pulls himself around to face him, looking for expressions. Sam's a book. His face has everything on it, and Dean cups his cheeks in both hands. "Come on. Tell me I'm alive, buddy."

Sam's shivering. It's not cold but he's shivering. He can't get a full breath, he can't even feel the floor under him. But he can say through these shuddering breaths and chattering teeth: "Dean. I thought you were dead. I thought--" But that's as far as he can go before he lifts his hand and looks horrified at the knife slicked in Dean's blood. He tosses it away like it's stung him and stares open-mouthed at Dean, shaking his head. Shaking.

"Yup. You sure did. Broke your lovely coffee table. Probably your hand too. Good thing you've got a month off. Hope you don't need to take care of business with it."

Dean slaps Sam's face lightly, and he can feel reality starting to slide back into place.

"Let me see the thing."

But Sam can't move anything. God, he's light-headed, and he feels kinda... high, and his chest hurts and he's pretty sure he's had some kind of heart attack and so he nods at Dean, sure anything, just stay alive stay the _fuck_ alive and he can't help but see Dad and Bobby standing at Dean's pyre, shaking their heads at the loss and _what's breathing again?_ and he just lurches forward and bangs his head into Dean's chest and holds himself there with his hand curled into Dean's jacket like a lifeline.

There's no cool, smooth moment of detachment for that hug-- The reaction is visceral. It's instinctive. Sam gives a hug because he's glad you're alive, you hug the fuck back, no questions asked. No explanations needed.

He'll kill this kid accidentally, his arms are too tight. Somehow Dean's chin is on the top of Sam's head, and Christ, it hasn't been like that since Sam was like 14 and shorter, but here he is all sweaty and shaky and drawing pretty damn awful gasps.

"Yeah. Yeah okay. Breathe now. Fuck, Sam..." and that's as much reprimanding as he'll give the kid for tonight. He just hugs hard and tries to set an easy rhythm with his chest. Let Sam take it from there.

This will work, Sam thinks. This is Dean, he thinks. It has to be, and if it was a monster it would have killed him, and there was no call to Dad last night, no call to Bobby, no call from Dean's phone with Dad's voice on the other end. And Dean's heartbeat is steady, and his grip is firm enough that it doesn't matter that Sam doesn't even think he can feel his own legs right now. And he counts them, the beats of Dean's heart, each one a second more that Dean is alive, for real, leather and gun oil, leather and dirt, leather and aftershave, leather and blood, Dean.


	4. Chapter 4

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: Caladrius  
Sam: Agelade

This will work, Sam thinks. This is Dean, he thinks. It has to be, and if it was a monster it would have killed him, and there was no call to Dad last night, no call to Bobby, no call from Dean's phone with Dad's voice on the other end. And Dean's heartbeat is steady, and his grip is firm enough that it doesn't matter that Sam doesn't even think he can feel his own legs right now. And he counts them, the beats of Dean's heart, each one a second more that Dean is alive, for real, leather and gun oil, leather and dirt, leather and aftershave, leather and blood, Dean.

And he doesn't know how long it takes to remember how to breathe, but eventually he does figure it out, and his hold on Dean's jacket relaxes into a loose kind of claw and he still feels cold and shaky, but at least he doesn't feel high anymore, just wrung out. "You'ere right," he slurs, slumps back a little. "Guess it was a dream. Seemed real, too real. And... sleepwalking? Saw the table and I thought--" He shakes his head, his face crumples in some pain. "Don't feel great."

And Dean is already moving him back to the couch where eventually he is going to put this damn little brother to bed. And he'll get a mixing bowl in case Sam has to puke, and when he's unconscious he'll stay right here where Sam can see him if he wakes up all freaked out. And that's why Dean's not gonna leave. Not because now he's gotta watch Sam every second of the dark just in case he feels himself starting to _die_ again. No.

"Okay. Exciting night. Sammy is the center of attention."

Dean says it only half-sarcastically as he gets Sam's legs on the couch and then hands him the bottle of holy water.

"Just drink this for now. Tastes like Revelation."

Sam takes the bottle, it shakes only a little. He rolls his eyes. The room tilts. "Sorry," he croaks. "You know how I love an audience." He's irritated that Dean can joke, he's pissed at the center of attention jab, but all he can make himself do about it is track Dean through the room, and tell himself Dean's alive over and over. It's not that he's still worried Dean isn't Dean. Not anymore. Now, with the evidence, it seems obvious looking back that the thing with Dad and Bobby hadn't been real. But it doesn't hurt his heartrate at all to repeat it anyway. He stares. "I called Dad a bastard."

Dean grabs a water for sam and beer for himself from Sam’s fridge. "Yeah?  Bet that felt good."

Sam chuckles, a light little sound that surprises him. "Not really. I warned him that we better never meet again." He shakes his head, watches nothing. “I'm scared. Of what I'd do if. I don't think I'm a good person, Dean."

Dean pulls the chair from the kitchen into the livingroom, a trek of about 6 steps. He sits in it heavily, cracking the beer bottle open and taking a long pull. He wishes there was something stronger. He needs something stronger. And he hears what sam says and dismisses it as a matter of course, because this kid? Of the three Winchesters, Sam was the only one with a shred of purity left. But he was talking about if Dean died, and yes, there was probably a talk coming down the line, but not tonight. Not just now when Dean was finally alive. He pauses drinking to grab a corner of the blanket and pull it partially over his brother’s lanky body. "Sam, there's no hope for the rest of us if _you_ are a bad person. Just drink your water and warm up. And let me see the damage." Dean holds out his hand for Sam's. The voice of confidence and authority is finally and firmly back without a shred of desperation.

Sam looks down as Dean perches on a chair next to the couch. The pain in his hand -- he remembers it, but once Dean was alive, it had kinda faded into the background. It's back now, on cue, on demand, and he flexes it maybe a millimeter before it flares in pain and he hisses through his teeth. He holds it out, the pull of gravity makes it shake for the moment before Dean takes it. "Sorry. For." He tilts his head. "Felt really real. You know?"

Dean takes another swig as he appraises the hand. Then he sets his beer down and starts to poke. And yes, it's finally hurting Sam like a sonofabitch. And with good reason. He's being gentle, but Sam did a number on himself, what the fuck. "How the hell did you not wake up through this?" He says finally, ignoring the apology because _Dad_ got pissed and expected apologies for being terrified, but not Dean. If Dean had really thought Sam was dead? Had it been the reverse? Well, likely no one would have shown up in time to keep the muzzle out of his mouth.

Sam shrugs. "I've never had a dream that real before. Do you - did I ever sleepwalk? As a kid?"

"Sleepwalk? Hell no. Christ. I'd have never slept. You never so much as changed positions. So..." Dean doesn't want to talk about the dream that made him die, turned his brother crazy for almost ten whole minutes, so he focusses on Sam’s hand.

Dean presses into Sam’s palm in a couple places. "No broken fingers. That's good. But you probably fractured the 5th metacarpal. Tweezing this will probably hurt like a bitch. I got lidocaine shots in the car. Can you just...stay here and be good for two seconds? Or..."

Sam chuckles humorlessly. "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. I feel completely hungover, but I'm fine."

"Okay. Don't move." Dean impresses on him one last time, strenuously. Even when he stands he looks around, reluctant to leave. But he does. He finds the med kit in two seconds, grabs one of the bottle of Jack Daniels he brought for the weekend, and races back in as if the world could have collapsed in the short time he was gone.

Sam is in the bathroom when Dean comes back, seems like he's only been gone an instant, but it's more than enough time for loss to catch up with Sam, for grief to catch up to him again, and logic won't work for him, because this feeling is soul-deep and doesn't listen to reason. So when Dean gets back, when he hears his front door open and close again, he calls out from the floor of the bathroom where he's hunched over the toilet: "Back here."

Dean experiences a second of extreme panic before sam's voice reaches him, and he heads into the tiny bathroom where Sam is in the fetal position over the toilet. "Hey..." he deposits the stuff onto the ground. "Easy, okay?" He looks him over. Sam’s a pale, watery eyed mess and his hunched back hurts to look at.  Dean puts his hand on it firmly. "Jesus. This is like a 7 shot tequila night without the fun. How you doin’?"

Dean's hand on his back is like a ground for a live wire; the tension drains out of Sam and with it goes breath in a whoosh of relief and he nods drowsily before just dropping his head to his arms and letting it loll closer to the cool of the porcelain. "M'good." The corner of his mouth lifts in a wry smile. "I'd have killed you, Dean. If I'd had a weapon."

Dean actually laughs at that. "Yeah, right. Don't flatter yourself _that_ much, kid. Who's been staying in shape?" But his voice becomes serious suddenly. "Sam, I'd never let you kill me, okay? Put that out of your head. It would never have happened." Dean pulls out a syringe and checks it. Dad would have made Sam suffer the pain of cutting wood out of his hand, but Dad isn’t here. And that was the point. "Time for a shot...and then a shot." He nods at the bottle of Jack.

Sam laughs, winces, laughs again, pushes his hand out at an awkward round-the-head angle so he can still use his bicep as a pillow and watch Dean at the same time. "I mean it though. If I'd gotten lucky, or had my gun, or... I was a crazy person. Don't let me kill you, Dean. You put me down first, okay, because I couldn't live after that, if I got lucky or something."

"Now you're just getting melodramatic." Sam’s hand is a bloody mess, but this isn't Dean’s first rodeo with local anesthetic. He pushes the needle into the worst of it. "Don't cry. I’ll give you a lollipop after this." He slides the bottle of Jack to sam with a toe as he pulls the needle out. "Hit that good at least once."

Sam winces at the pinch as the needle goes in, but he knows the sensation as the calm before the blessedly-numb, and wrestles his other arm out to take hold of the bottle. He hasn't ever been a hard drinker, and the stuff has always burned more than it's worth it to him. But he can see now that he's messed himself up good, that Dean has some nasty work ahead of him, and he doesn't envy that Dean has to stay sober to deal with it. He lifts his head to take two good solid swigs of the Jack, coughs fumes and laughs at himself as the burn works down into him. "Why are you here so early anyway, man? I thought I had like another few hours til I had to deal with you."

"Annnnd there is the bitching I busted ass to get." Dean hauls Sam up to the sink. "To surprise you. Surprise!" He turns on the tap, gets it going. "This is gonna suck, man. Jesus. Nothing does this to you, no monster--you do it to yourself. Is the shot working?"

Sam flexes a little, winces but nods his head. "Yeah, starting too." He takes another shot of Jack to urge the lidocaine into action. "Nice surprise man. It would have been awesome, actually. Because I was already ready for you, hot shot. I got it allll set up. Beers. Christmas. Decorations," he ticks them off. "Presents. Foods."

"And now we've got the Jack and the _good_ drugs. Let the party begin." Dean takes a deep breath. "Christ, Sam..." and his voice trails off and whatever serious thing he was about to say is drowned out by the surprising chill from the tap and a twinge as Dean puts his hand under.

Sam frowns. "What?"

Dean is focussed on Sam's hand and pointedly doesn't look him in the eyes. "I'm glad you said you would’ve killed me. Because for a minute there it looked like you were gonna let some random monster or intruder just take you out."

"Oh." Sam looks away which is fine, Dean's not making eye contact anyway. "Because I said -- I didn't have a weapon Dean. I didn't -- I was buying time," he ends lamely. Unsure now, because instinct _had_ warred with grief and until it was clear Dean wasn't going to kill him? Sam was sure grief had won.

Dean's shoulders relax and he exhales. Relieved even if he's not totally sure he believes it. But he _wants_ to believe it. So for now it's going to be good enough. When he pulls Sam's hand out of the water, rubs off what's been caked on blood, he makes a face. Seriously. "You realize you write with this hand. Thank God you don't play cello or some shit." He leans down to the med kit and grabs some scary tools including a scalpel and needle and thread as well as tweezers. He looks up at Sam, just with his eyes.

"You up for this now? I just need to know for possible puking purposes."

Sam nods. The adrenaline has worn off and it's left him feeling sick and empty, and like he's forgotten something. But it doesn't matter, Dean is here. "Do your worst," he says wearily, leans his forehead against his arm on the edge of the sink as Dean maneuvers his hand and fingers. Gentle, he's more gentle than Dad has been in the last few years, and this is going to hurt, but he's nicely buzzed now, and he still has the bottle of Jack loose in his left hand if he needs it. And there's the local, of course. "You wanna hear about it?"

"Hear about what?"

Dean drops the lid over the toilet and pushes Sam onto it easy. He perches himself on the rim of the tiny tub with access to the faucet when it'll be needed. It's a tight squeeze, and it's hard to decide where the legs for both brothers begin and end, but this kind of thing, bathroom surgery, is almost comforting to Dean in its familiarity. And his hands are fixing Sam, and Sam's all numbed up in more ways than one and his mouth makes words in funny ways. Dean's calming even as he gets in with the tweezers and starts pulling splinters.

"Um." Sam winks open an eye. Closes it again. "How you died."

Dean pauses in mid yank and then continues smoothly. "Uh. This will make you feel better about it? Talkin' it out?"

"Dad said it was a ... a spider thing. Put babies in you or something, had to burn you an' I didn't even get to go -- I thought. I thought Dad wasn't Dad. So I called uh, Dad. But it was Dad. You know?"

Dean stops mid yank. His flesh creeps and his whole body goes cold. Sam's taken another swig of Jack, and between it and the local he's feeling no pain. And that's good. That's...just...

Dean clears his throat. Makes sure his voice sounds completely conversational. "Damn. Um... That sounds pretty fucking disgusting. And creepy." And then Dean remembers that this was more about Dad not being Dad. Right. "So naturally it was a fakeout by _some_ thing, not Dad. Because, you know, I'd never go out like that. With baby spiders all crawling out my guts."

Sam nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah exactly," he says, pleased to see someone else made the same assumptions he had. "But it was Dad who answered, so I like, _totally_ bitched him out and then I threatened to kill him the next time I saw him and then I hung up on him and I called Bobby to ask him to check and see if Dad was really Dad." Sam smiles up at Dean, but it's like the sight of him reminds him that Dean is made of bone and blood and the smile fades. "But he was really Dad, Dean. And Bobby had to burn your body and I wasn't even there, I wasn't even there to witness-- That could happen Dean. It could happen like that. And I'd never know until Dad told me. If he even thinks to tell me. Dean, how am I supposed to--"

"Well, goddamn. Your subconscious is really thorough, isn't it? Except it fucking forgets my ninjalike reflexes. So, you know, just sayin', if it had started with _that_ , you wouldn't be here drunk and bleeding over a tub while your big bro pulls pieces of really worthless coffee table out of you." He grimaces and pulls an impossibly giant splinter. "Why doesn't that big brain of yours lead with something more believable, huh? Like I'm not maybe gonna get killed by a spider or something?"

Sam throws him a sidelong look past the bottle as he tilts it up for another swig. "A spider could kill you. A regular old poisonous spider could kill you Dean. A supernatural crazy spider could _definitely_ kill you. You aren't invincible. Ow."

"Hey, don't be a baby." Dean lightly slaps Sam's face, and then he grabs the bottle of Jack from Sam's hands and puts it in the tub behind him. "And you're cut off because you're saying stupid shit." He says it like a kindergarten teacher reprimanding a charge, making sure to give Sam lots of eye contact. "Hey, are you listening to me? I squash spiders, okay? Supernatural or otherwise. Any of this sinking in? Not gonna die, Sam. Too good for that."

Sam watches Dean as he speaks, blinks slowly. Dean isn't stupid, he knows that everyone dies, he knows that hunters' lifespans are shorter than most. But there's no changing Dean, try though Sam might. He looks belatedly at the bottle of Jack in the bathtub, then swivels his head back to Dean in accusation, mouth open, nose wrinkled. "S'not _stupid_ Dean. _You're_ stupid."

Dean holds up a scalpel, and his face is grim. "Yeah. You gonna call the guy who's gonna fix up your hand stupid? Not so smart, Mr. Scholarship. How about, 'Dean, you're the smartest big bro a guy could ask for when he's sittin' on a toilet and there's a big shank of wood in my hand.' How about 'thanks for lying to rush and get here so fast so you could find me bleeding on my floor and take care of me.' How about a little of that before we get into this? And how about you take an antibiotic right now, because my dumbass brother is going to need stitches." Dean smiles, and he's calm. And everything is right with the world because Sam's calling him names and he's drunk and a little too much like the tiny little brother who once adored him.

"I have _wood_ in my hand? Dean, I need this hand to write with!" Sam zeroes in on the scalpel now, raises his brows at his hand and tries to flex it, swollen with injected lidocaine and now that it's been in cold water and cleaned off, he can see he's done a number on himself. "Ow. _Ow_ Dean!" He glares at Dean.

"Don't watch me then. Look at your damn feet," Dean says as he takes the scalpel and cuts into Sam's hand. He knows almost exactly what this is like, having gone through minor surgery before when Dad had to cut into his arm to remove an embedded talon from some freaky bird creature. It would pull and feel _wrong_ but it didn't hurt so much with the lidocaine. It just looked fucking horrific. Nothing made Dean queasier than Sam's blood, though. He wished he wasn’t sober, though, because actually _cutting_ Sam went against every prime directive. In other words, Dean was pretty sure this was hurting him worse than Sam. "Almost got it. Hum 'Enter Sandman' or something."

Sam hums tunelessly in response, looks at his feet. Has an idea that he could probably grab that bottle of Jack without jarring Dean's little operation, maybe without Dean even knowing, and he isn't even thirsty he just wants to see if he can do it. "Hey Dean. Did you bring _Goonies_?" He makes a sly reach for the bathtub.

"I told you I would. And I'm gonna make you watch it like 10 times so you can glean all the awesome from it. Hey! You wanna ever be able to use this hand again? Then keep still. Be happy I shared that bottle with you..."

Dean gets the piece out and Sam's hand is a perfect mess. "Okay now, irrigation time," he announces before turning the water on and putting Sam's hand under it. "Splinters equal infection equals an amputation. Get serious about my skill here."

Sam hisses as Dean pulls his hand toward the faucet and Sam away from the bottle in the tub. He gives up then, it feels like he gives up doing _anything_ , and just lists back against the tank of the toilet and stares at his hand being cut apart and flushed out like it's someone else's hand. "You ever dream that I died?" he says.

"Christ, Sammy." But Dean's face goes from self-assured to devastated in 2.5 seconds. "You're cut off for life. Fuck." He pulls the hand back and masks his sudden pain with a root around in the med bag for the damn antibiotics.

" _Do_ you?"

Dean comes up with a bottle. He twists it off with his teeth. "Take your damn medicine." He tilts the bottle to Sam.

Sam carefully lines up the pointer finger of his left hand with the mouth of the bottle with over-dramatized care, hums a little as he fishes out a pill and pops it into his mouth, swallows it dry. "So that's a yes? It's okay man. It's just internalized concern coming out naturally as your mind assimilates your day's experiences into information it can process. Perfectly normal."

"Um. Okay. Newsflash? I hate Dr. Phil. Don't talk like that douchebag ever. Please." Dean lets go of Sam's head to thread a needle. "What d’you want me to say? You want a list of those dreams in chronological order, intensity, or category? The answer is fucking plenty. Too many." He bites off the end of the thread and takes Sam's hand back.

Sam watches Dean and his eyes well up even though there's no real reason for him to be sad. But. Still. "You never said."

"Why would I ever say? Like I'm gonna scare my damn little brother. Jesus. I'm not a total dick."

Dean remembers the first nightmare that Sam died. He was 8 months old and Dean was sleeping with him in the bed in some motel room and Sam just fell off the edge of the bed because Dean stopped holding him and his soft little head was bleeding. Dean remembers he was screaming in his dream, but when he woke up, the motel was totally silent. It was one of the first really vivid memories he had beyond Dad pushing six-month-old Sam into his arms and telling him to run.

Dean starts his sutures, and they are neat and precise and there is nothing wet obscuring his vision for this important big brother task of sewing the little brother up.

"Yeah. And lately I've had dreams that you go off and try to hunt alone and get yourself into major trouble." Dean looks up at Sam with a serious face, and he can now deflect it all back. "Not that you would, right? Because you fucking hate the hunting. Never would be doing that _here_ , right?"

Sam's head snaps up and his eyes go wide. "Uh. No. Uh. Why would you--" He laughs weakly. "Even. Say that?"

 _Oh, drunk little brother. You are so busted_.

"Don't lie to a liar, Sam. You gave me some mighty fresh holy water back there. Nice. Like maybe a week old, _tops_ and I'm assuming it's not because it's like, delicious with fucking wheat toast. So. You. The ghost in the paper. Just spill it, you know you want to."

Sam blinks slow, still stuck on trying to deny it, but his mouth moves to form words and they don't come out because Dean has just totally called him on it. Frick. "Someone was ... in danger. Easy hunt. In and out in like 45 minutes. And the ghoul was like, two days of research and one night stakeout, like--" Blink. "Max. For real. They weren't even real hunts, man they were like... _tasks_ ," he says with triumph. Tasks were way different than hunts.

Dean nods, puts another nice little tie off right next to the last. Goes in again with the needle and thread. "Right. _Tasks_. I like that. Changing the name to make it sound like something else. Very pre-law of you. Prize for Most Nerdiest Bullshit goes to Sam Winchester. Standing ovation." Dean pauses and looks up at Sam. "Except next time something in the paper isn't a fucking 'task.' Then what? Don't give me this crap. You _begged_ me not to hunt this week because you wanted me to be _safe_. How many dreams of me dying have you had? Is this the first one? Because I promise you I've had more, and they don't get easier when I can't fucking _see you_ , Sam."

Sam's brows go together and he's breathing through his teeth and he isn't thinking straight and he feels like shit for making Dean feel like shit and also because maybe he'd half-hoped Dean might have maybe somehow felt proud of him for taking out some scary crap without breaking a sweat. But. "I know. I know. I'm sorry. But I couldn't just ignore -- not when it's right in front of me, Dean. But I'm trying, okay, I'm trying to leave it behind but Dad--" He shakes his head. He's not drunk enough to cry, right? "It's. I don't know."

Dean might have laughed if it wasn't so goddamn _sad_. Like the fact that Dean hunts to impress Dad and Sam hunts to save people... and still tries to save people even when he says that other people can save people. And tries to believe it, poor, dumb little brother.

"Sam. You and me, we're never gonna _un_ see all the shit around us. Okay? We never will. And you might try, and you might even go for months without looking, but then someday something is gonna be in your face again."

Dean sighs. He finishes the last suture, and goddamn, if it isn't the nicest, cleanest sewing job he's ever done. Yay for him. Yay for fucking Dean Winchester who's proud he's sewn up his poor dumb brother because he thought he was dead.

"Whatever, Sam. You made it all pretty clear. You are gonna do what you want." And for some reason, Dean's eyes do fill for that. Fill to the brink and beyond. Because the danger is past and Sam is safe and he's going to be okay and now Dean can fall apart quietly. Where the fuck did he put that Jack?

Sam watches. Yeah, he's messed this up. Fuck. "Don't go, Dean. Please don't leave. Please, I'm sorry. I'm a hypocrite and I-- Stay though, okay? I got you a present and everything."

Dean takes a long, really long drag on the bottle he brought. It's a lie that this shit helps, but what the hell, if it's good enough for Dad.

"Hey, hey, settle down." Dean tries to rub his arm across his eyes like it's a natural thing, but it isn't and he knows it. "I'm not going. I brought _Goonies_ and you got all kinds of food shit and some Christmas stuff and I'm not going, okay? Jesus. I said I would stay, okay? Sam." Dean reaches up a hand and hollowly slap his brother's face again. "You're fucking stuck with me for a week. Okay?"

Sam smiles a little, flexes his freshly stitched up hand a little. "Okay. Hey, you wanna hear something _really_ screwed up?"

"Like, more screwed up than anything else tonight?"

Sam laughs. "Maybe more screwed up _because_ of tonight."

"Wait." Dean puts up a finger, and then turns his head and gets down another three shots worth of Jack. Shit's feeling a whole lot nicer.

He hiccups.

"Okay. I'm prepared. Shoot."

Sam shakes his head, pulls his hand into his lap. "I felt. Um. Bad, I guess. About guilting you into not hunting for a week. And I was thinking about what you said, about how a nice Christmas for you would be us on a hunt and. I kinda... found us a job. An _easy_ one, okay. But." He shrugs his shoulders up in mock glee. "Merry Christmas?"

Dean's eyebrows go up. "You..." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You found a job? For Christmas?"

And there are about ten voices in Dean's head that say this all conflicts with everything and that yelling at Sam should be the first priority, but the damn kid is so excited about it, and goofy and drunk and they're both together for Christmas and...

Dean leans forward and grabs Sam's shirt. He pulls him in for the hug over the cracked bathroom tile and squeezes him hard. Stupid, bony Sam. Awkward little brainiac. Just, what the fuck, this kid. All dopey and drugged up and drunk and adorable and so so so stupid.

"You're so sweet on me. Merry Christmas, little brother."


	5. Chapter 5

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: [Caladria](http://caladria.tumblr.com/)  
Sam: [Agelade](http://agelade.tumblr.com)

 

Chapter Five

Dean should have maybe grabbed the bottle of Jack from Sam after the first shot because, damn, he had forgotten what a lightweight this kid was. And the local anesthetic meant he was feeling no pain from the freshly stitched and bandaged hand, so it was no wonder that Sam was slurring and babbling in the middle of the night.

God. This night.

Of all the ways Dean had imagined Sam dealing with his early arrival, finding him unconscious and bleeding with fucking _wood_ in his hand was not on the list. Nor did he expect to have his entire existence reduced to ashes under Sam’s conviction that he was dead.

Right. Don’t even think about that anymore. It had taken both of them to a bad place.

And it was hard to see that strange, vacant, incarnation of his brother when Dean was wrapping Sam’s hand and his little brother was babbling about someone’s Christmas lights synced to music and it was “that cool song you liked Dean…that one…from Trans——Transylvberia…”

Yeah. That’s when Dean knew it was time for beddy bye.

Dean has to prop Sam up, an arm around his shoulder, to get him to his room. And then it’s a fun thing to maneuver the blankets down so he can toss the kid in them. All the while Sam tries to cling to Dean’s neck while he’s clearly falling asleep, making it harder to just let the kid be. Somehow Dean manages to get at least Sam’s jeans off, pulling the covers over him, before Sam’s breathing evens out.

Good. Hopefully he’ll be out six hours at least.

But Dean isn’t taking any chances that he’ll find himself dead again. That Sam will have some kind of freaky relapse. He pulls the chair from the kitchen into the room and falls into it. Hard. He isn’t going to sleep anyway—even if the thoughts in his head aren’t enough to keep him awake (which they are). Dean has been on stakeouts all night that have been less important than this one.

It’s easy for Sam to fall into bed. Easy to fall when Dean pushes him. When Dean talks to him, half-carries him. When Dean yanks him around and yeah, that could mean trouble, but there’d be yelling. It could have been dangerous but there’d be a tang in the air that was distinctive to their brand of violence — salt and blood and gunpowder. But when Dean pushes him around with maybe a little laugh or “whoops, easy there,” Sam goes easy.

And he lays there like a stone, slower than living, and he catalogues everything slow. The way the sound goes dull like it’s muffled. The way time shuffles along half pace, like maybe it can’t keep up, or just because it’s giving Sam a break, or maybe because Dean is telling it to calm the fuck down.

He thinks he’s breathing along with the slow tempo of the earth’s heartbeat, or Dean’s or —

When the chair taps down onto the floor next to his bed, he winks open an eye to see the shadow of Dean drop down into it, and he blinks long at it, a couple of times, and the next time he opens his eyes, the light has changed just a little, and Dean is slumped just a little, and if the taste in his mouth is any indication, he’s slept for an hour, maybe two.

But Dean is there, and Dean is there, and Dean is there, so he sleeps again, dreams of nothing. And he wakes with sun on his face and leather and gun oil in his clothes and leather and blood in the air, and leather and Dean just everywhere, and he opens his eyes.

To an empty chair.

Flash panic: _It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a dream until he had knocked himself out cold in grief in his living room, it wasn’t a dream at all until he had dreamed his brother back to life, it wasn’t_ — But he closes his hand onto the blanket to throw it off and stitches pull, stitches the way Dad had taught them to do, but he couldn’t have done them left-handed, not that straight, there’s no way, and why would his chair be in here, and — he tries to keep the panic out of his voice:

"Dean?"

"Still alive, Sammy."

That’s Dean’s voice coming from another room, and it might be him, really, because now Sam can smell something marching behind the confident call: Breakfast. Eggs, yes, bacon totally. And coffee. Definitely coffee.

Which is good, because coffee might actually stop the pounding in his head. Sam whips the blanket off and ignores the burn of the stitches in favor of padding out to the — Okay, pants first, then padding out to the kitchen, where his nose has proven him right. If only his stomach agreed. _Shut up stomach — you knew Dean would cook if there was food in the house. This was the deal._

Sam runs his hands through his messy bed head and yawns through the first “Dean. What time is it?”

"Dunno. Probably somewhere around eleven thirty. Maybe going on two."

One pound of bacon is nearing perfection on this shitty shitty thin-ass aluminum skillet that clearly came from a thrift shop. And that’s okay because, thin or not, it can cook pig fat up just as well as a hub cap. And Dean would know because he’s gotten desperate enough a few times (but not with any of the Impala’s hubcaps. People were always LOSING those things…).

Dean glances up and does a quick inspection. Sam’s doing the “need Tylenol” stumble. And he’s pale and his dressing needs changed, but he isn’t a tight ball of nerves. And he isn’t _empty_ and that counts for something.

Dean spins the spatula around in his hand like his .45. Like a circus ringmaster.

"This is the part where I get to feed you eggs and maybe watch you upchuck them in 30. How many you want? Don’t be a puss."

Sam shrugs. “Iuhno. A couple?” He looks around. For evidence. Of broken things, of missing people, of — a table that had died in a tragic sleep-walking drive by. Relief whooshs out of him and he steadies himself on the table with both hands. “Four, maybe. No, just a couple. Ugh. There’s hot sauce in the fridge. There’s cheese in the fridge, did you see it?”

Dean grins at Sam. Offering up his poor poor hungover and frankensteined body for sibling brutality.

"Well, now I _know_ you missed me. Cheese and hotsauce for your hangover eggs? Perfect. One order of Dean Winchester’s ‘4-Egg Alarm’ comin’ right up.” He chuckles as he grabs said ingredients from the fridge. “Maybe you didn’t miss me. Maybe you’re just a masochist, Sammy.” The eggs, already cracked and scrambled for round two wait in a bowl for seasoning and embellishment. And there’s that feeling again, that simple pleasure of throwing in a “pinch” of this and a “dollop” of that to make something better. Like when Dean put a stolen Hershey bar onto his and Sam’s peanut butter sandwiches once. God. Like, sandwich orgasm right there. And cheese and hot sauce existed for _everything_.

Sam grins, sleepy and half-sick; it’s a full on grin like he hasn’t felt the sun in like a hundred years but _here it is_. “I’m fine,” he says, even as the world threatens to shake him off like a wet dog. He squeezes his eyes shut hard and opens them again, and things seems a lot more solid. _Last night,_ he wants to say. But instead he says, “Maybe a shower…”

"Yeah? Not feelin’ pukey? I’d hold off on the shower for a couple hours until you’re sure." He dumps the eggs into a second skillet, still riddled with bits of the last batch of eggs he’s horfed down immediately. Because, apparently, being dead made one very very hungry.

"A shower usually makes me feel a lot better. But I don’t want the eggs to get cold." He doesn’t have a chair out here anymore, he probably should have two of them anyway, because even if Dean’s not visiting, there was the possibility that he might make a friend other than Brady, who never came over for whatever reason. He leans against the fridge and plays with the bandage around his hand. "Um."

Dean clears his throat and shovels the spatula through a hardening wall of yellow now oozing cheese. He feigns interest in his handywork as he inspects Sam’s body language with his peripheral vision. And yeah, here’s where they were going to re-live things from last night that Dean was perfectly happy to leave in the past.

"Gotta get ‘em hot so the cheese is all melty and makes its own sauce." He scoops eggs from the pan to the plate and grabs the hot sauce. With a practiced flourish, he drops two dots and a long, curving line, creating something that looks a cross between a smiley face and a grimacing fire elemental. Goofy shit he hasn’t done since Sam was ten. "You want bacon with this? There’s like nine pounds in the fridge."

Sam narrows his eyes at Dean briefly, trying to read him. Dean isn’t hard to read at all, not usually, not for Sam, but does he not want to talk because Sam worried him, or because Sam was an idiot, or because Dean is disappointed that Sam could have possibly thought he was dead, for real, for like twenty minutes _after_ waking up. “Um. Yeah. Bacon.” He pushes away from the fridge, the world rolls around him — how much had he drunk last night? All he really remembers is staring at the bathroom tile and Dean’s voice. Then he frowns. “Wait — how long have you been up?”

Dean shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth. “Um…what day is this?” He shrugs and grabs another because, goddamn, all this bacon here and he should be pissed that Sam spent all this money on bacon because frugality was so ingrained in his being, but he’s not pissed. Can’t be pissed. “Don’t know. Awhile. Been awake longer.” He licks his fingers but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t feel the fatigue weighing on him like cotton shirts and jeans soaked in pond water trying to pull him down.

_I’ll sleep when I’m dead_ , he thinks and it sends a shudder up his spine.

"I’m good. Probably shouldn’t operate any aircraft though."

"Uh, _you_ shouldn’t do that anyway. You’d never get off the ground.” He peers around Dean to the countertop. “Is there bacon already made? Why don’t you go crash? I’ll make coffee or something…”

Dean points to the coffee already done, the mound of bacon on a plate like some beautiful pagan offering. “The sun and I have it covered.” He’d been sucking down black coffee since the dawn light had begun to illuminate Sam’s room. There was a reason humanity just naturally feared the night, with all of its dark places, just as the coming of dawn could bring relief from those nightmares. And that’s when Dean felt comfortable enough to leave Sam’s side to make said coffee.

And he’s been drinking it like a fiend for hours.

"Eat something and then I’ll check the hand. How’s it feelin’?"

Sam curls the hand into a fist, despite the sting and pull, and drops it to his side, like that can hide the stupid thing he’s done to himself. “It’s fine,” he says, taking a step back. “I think I might get that shower after all.”

Dean stops moving. He turns to Sam and stares him in the face and says nothing.

Sam stares back for a moment, and then he’s backing up a step into the hallway. “Sorry. I — sorry,” and he turns to flee.

Dean’s not so tired that he can’t grab Sam’s arm before he can run. And what was this, anyway? Was Sam going to cling to all the bad of the night before? Really? Or maybe it was something else?

"The hell is wrong, Sam? You wanted me here and now you’re runnin’. I’m not a complete idiot."

He sighs. “Just. What?”

Sam shakes his head, but his arm is still in Dean’s hand and he’s not fighting that, okay, it’s just.  ”I get that you don’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine.  And I know you said you’re going to stay, I know you promised and you don’t go back on your word, so that’s fine too, but — I mean would it make you feel better to yell at me or something?  Just, whatever you want.”

Dean shakes his head shortly, as if that could clear his muffled hearing. “Yell at you? Is that what you want? For me to get revenge on you for you scaring the shit out of both of us last night? Fuck, Sam. I mean, I know I’m kind of a dick, but you think I’m _that_ much of a dick?”

Dean thinks he’s playing this off, the hurt of what was implied, but he’s too tired to know if he’s succeeding.

_Jesus, Sammy._

He lets go of Sam’s arm and turns around to twist the oven to “warm.”

"Go get your shower. At least one of us will feel better."

He didn’t mean to say the last part out loud. Not really.

Sam stares, socked in the gut.  Instinct tells him to advance on Dean, set him straight, it’s not about Dean being a dick even though yeah he often is, it’s about Sam being an idiot, not knowing the difference between some monster and his brother, and he’s _trying_ to give Dean an _out_ here, if he wants to leave (but he doesn’t) or if he wants to yell at Sam and hurt him (but he’s done that, now, he’s done that) so—

He’s done that.  So.  The breath whooshes out of him and he nods distractedly and tilts his head like that’ll give him some new angle on how to fix this.  ”Sorry,” he says again and disappears down the hall to the bathroom.

Dean probably would have punched something at that point if his entire body didn’t feel like it was hanging like a weight over a cliff. He braces both hands on the warming surface of the stove and breathes instead. Why anyone thought that breathing could help reduce the need to break something had always been beyond him. Now especially. But Sam was gone to shower and have Sam feelings and Dean was going to keep these eggs in a warm oven and hope Sam would eventually eat them. Just like he hoped Sam would let him just fix the damn hand because it was easier when the hand one was bandaging wasn’t one of your own. Because of that, and not necessarily because Dean just wanted to fix it all to make it go back to what this should have been—a week of Christmas and goodwill or some shit.

The shower is hot and purifying, a ritual for Sam for as long as he can remember — fight with Dad, hot hot shower, fight with Dean, hot hot shower, get clean or at least get red all over, get angry and get that washed out of you until you’re exhausted by the heat and your heart is in your ears.  But this isn’t a fight, it’s just a… it’s … What?  ”I don’t think you’re a dick, Dean,” he says softly, trying out the conversation.  But what would Dean say back?  He isn’t sure now, and that is like another blow, because it wasn’t so long ago that he could have done both parts of their conversation, and now there’s like six months between them, a million miles between them, and while he’s pretty sure he broke something in Dean, he’s not sure how to fix it or if he even has the right.

By the time he’s out of the shower, he’s started a dozen conversations with no progress, he’s flush with the heat and he’s dizzy from it too, and the cool of the air outside the bedroom makes him shiver.  If anything.  He feels worse.  He comes back out into the kitchen in sweats and a tee shirt, still clueless about what to say.

Dean hears Sam come back while fiddling with the crappy secondhand TV. He’s behind it, doing something, and then the hazy, snowy image of “The Price is Right” is crystal clear. Of course it is. Because Dean can fix everything he can put his hands on except his fucking family.

Cue the drum riff and the hilarity of a live studio audience.

But this movie is going to play _perfectly_ and that’s how Dean is going to work this angle.

He looks up at Sam who, frankly, somehow manages to look worse now than when he disappeared uh…20 minutes ago?

He smiles anyway. Because.

"Why don’t you just give me the list of crap that doesn’t work right around here? I charge a reasonable rate per hour."

Sam lifts a brow and looks up to signify _everything_ and says, “It’s a shithole, Dean.   _Nothing_ works right.  Except the door.  And that TV now, I guess.”  He pads through the kitchen.  Apparently they’re going to play it like nothing happened.  Dean is better at that than Sam is, and Sam’s not sure he can keep it up, but he’ll try for Dean.  Uh, he owes him that much.  He sighs and looks around.  The dishes are in the sink, no sign of the eggs.  He frowns.

Dean’s behind him, beside him, opening the oven. “You hungry? Not as fresh but…hey, how’s the stomach?”

Okay, he can’t help it: Sam smiles.  What did he think Dean was gonna do?  Toss them, eat them all himself?  What is wrong with him?  ”Fine, it’s fine.  I’m _starving_.”  His stomach growls and yeah, not in a good way; it’s threatening rebellion, but he’s going to eat the crap out of Dean’s eggs.  He watches as Dean pulls them out, chews a little on his lips.  Then:  ”Dean.  I’m sorry, man.  About last night.”

Dean pulls the tinfoil off the plate and finds a fork, sets the bounty before his hungry little brother.

Okay. Fine. They were going to talk about this apparently. But there were things Dean knew that Sam didn’t know. Maybe. Or maybe Sam _did_ know and just never said…

Without even thinking much about it, he grabs a beer from the fridge. Some things could not be tackled without at least a beer. Because what the fuck? Nothing about it was right.

"I’m not mad at you Sam, Jesus. It’s not like you meant to…" To think I was dead. To erase me from your existence so utterly and entirely.

_If I woke up and thought you were dead for real…_

"Have you had other…dreams like that? Just tell me."

Sam presses his lips into a line, regards his eggs.  ”Nothing that real before.  Nothing with sleep-walking.  Nothing I didn’t… realize was just a dream a minute after waking up.  I swear.”

Dean pulls at the neck of his beer bottle. It give him a second to try to feel out any more…but Sam’s not casting off any signs. Not that Dean can entirely rule it out because Sam can hide…

…But he doesn’t think he is this time.

"It was just a dream, Sam. You gonna eat that while we watch a movie or you worried about dropping crumbs on your couch?"

_I bled on that couch, so…_

Damn. That had been a rough night too, but it had ended okay. Things would be okay…in as much as Sam was still _here_ and Dean wasn’t. Usually.

Sam is still watching, still wary, but if Dean is harboring any residual anger or whatever, it isn’t showing.  Sam smiles a little, his chest loosens like he’d been wrapped in steel bands that have suddenly vanished.  ”Couch is good,” he says.  ”But I need coffee.  Like.  So much coffee.”  He moves toward it, toward Dean, and maybe it’s a test to see what Dean will do.  If Dean will be as uncomfortable around him as Sam is worried about.

"Yeah. Get you some of that." Dean agrees. He slides to the right. It’s enough for Sam to get his arm toward the coffee, but not so far that he’s going to be able to do it without brushing an arm or leg against Dean in the process. Dean’s fine with that, being a presence.

Sam smiles as he reaches for the coffee maker. Dean’s in the way, what a jerk, what an ass not moving when it’s obvious Sam is reaching past him. Sam smiles and it’s like that terrible dream never happened. “Hey, dude,” he says once his coffee’s in a mug. He flexes his hand at Dean and makes a face at it. “Could you take a look at this? Hard with one hand, you know?” He smiles up at Dean.

Dean looks at Sam once, and then sets his bottle aside. He takes his brother’s palm in his hand and inspects it.

"Honestly? Looks like it went through a meat grinder…"

Sam did this to himself. He did this in a dream and he thought Dean was dead.

"Looks okay if you overlook the fact that it actually looks like shit. And you’re gonna need a splint for the hand, and I know how to make one so you can take it off. Just need to stop by a hardware place and get some PVC and velcro. In the meantime we’ll bandage it up." He looks up at Sam. "Did you take a painkiller this morning or are you just always this stoic after a guy rips wood chunks from your hand?”

Sam winks up an eye. “Honestly? It hurts like hell. But it’s better than last night. I had to get dressed one handed though.” Sam looks at the hand, tries not to think anything too Dr Philly about what it symbolized about pain meaning someone was alive, or about his lack of awareness of personal safety when he thought Dean was gone. Dean would have laughed at him or smacked him.

"Uh, yeah, it’s better than last night, captain Obvious." He reaches in a pocket and pulls a small yellow prescription container. Shaking one out he takes Sam’s good hand and slaps it in it. "Take this and don’t argue. Unless you’re planning on operating heavy machinery." Dean slides past Sam toward the bathroom to collect the bandages.

Sam chuckles at Dean’s back.  ”No argument from me,” he says, subdued, and then he pops the pill and swallows it dry.  His hand throbs, now that it’s been poked and prodded, and now that he feels better about Dean, it’s like his hand isn’t going to settle for a back seat anymore.  He nestles the plate into a crook in his arm and takes his coffee cup up with his left hand, turns to the living room to eat on the couch —

Only to find his coffee table isn’t quite up to the task of holding up breakfast anymore, being totally gone and everything.  Dean must have cleared away the splintered pieces while Sam was out.  He’s standing dejectedly between his kitchen and living room, not even two separate rooms, honestly, when Dean gets back.

Dean emerges to see Sam standing, rudderless, kinda lost, and it would have been hilarious considering the kid was in his own space except that it wasn’t funny. At all.

Dean takes the plate and sets it on the couch, shaking his head. That left only the coffee cup to deal with. He takes Sam’s palm and starts to wrap. “You remember tellin’ me about your ‘tasks’ last night?”

Sam nods out of habit, then checks it.  ”Tasks?  Um… No.  What’d I say?”

Dean’s eyes glance up, measure Sam’s face, before they drop back to his work. “Hunting, Sam. Yeah. You and hunting out here.” Dean grabs Sam’s wrist and gives it a little shake. “This is you on a night you stay in, Sam. Man, what do you think you’re doin’, hunting alone?”

Sam makes a face and a token attempt to pull his hand away from Dean.  ”Last night was different, Dean.  I told you, that’s never happened before, not like that.”  He remembers now, admitting to hunting, calling them “tasks.”  He needed to never drink with Dean again.  But the couple of little hunts, they _were_ like checklists, one was pretty scary but he pulled it off pretty well.  He wasn’t a child.  But he doesn’t answer Dean, just looks away.

"Why? Huh? Explain it. Were you tryin’ to prove something or is this one of your ongoing extracurriculers?" Yeah, they’d had this discussion the previous night, but Dean hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling of betrayal that Sam could defame their way of life so passionately to dad and then not fucking _stop_ when he left. Christ. Hunting solo was the fastest way to get dead. And Sam was supposed to be the smart one.

"I don’t _know_ why it happened, Dean!  Do you know why all _your_ dreams happen?  God I was just worried about you, okay?  Who knows where… _spider_ monster came from,” he says, as confused about that as the next guy.  ”Nothing I’ve hunted since I left has been all that dangerous, definitely not on _that_ scale.  So no.  They have nothing to do with each other.”

Dean freezes mid wrap. He shakes his head, as if that was enough to unhear what he didn’t want to think about. “The hunting, Sam. I meant explain the hunting.”

Sam blinks.  He wants to take his hand back and finish wrapping it himself, but he’s unwisely shackled himself to a cup of coffee with nowhere to put it down.  So he’s stuck.  He blows out a breath.  ”It was the holy water, huh?”

"Yeah. Mountain spring fresh. Used and refilled." Dean shakes his head. "If Dad found out you were hunting, he would lose his shit entirely."

"Yeah, well.  He can’t find out."  Sam sighs.  "They were… I couldn’t just let them go, okay?  One was on campus, some civilian could have gotten really hurt, or killed, but for me?  It was nothing.  It wasn’t even dangerous.  Another was this favor for my friend, Brady.  He had-" he says hastily - "no idea what he was dealing with, obviously.  But it was two days of research max, one overnight stakeout and then it was done.  If I had needed help — Dean if I’d needed help, I’d have just called you and Dad to come take care of it and leave me out of it completely.  I only stepped in at all because they were quick and people were in danger."

It was no use. Back and around again. And Sam wouldn’t get that THIS was the kind of shit he and Dad worried about with Sam gone. Dad would never admit it, but Dean knew something about Sam’s distance was just…messing with him. Living with the man had been barely tolerable. But that was the drama of last visit. “Like you said. Other people can deal with these things.” It cost a lot to say it out loud, but if tossing Sam’s words back at him would get the job done…well, Dean had little pride left.

Sam frowns.  ”I know.”  He shrugs.  ”And I know that _this_ is what I want, school, not hunting, all of it.  I guess I just can’t… turn it off.  I can’t just turn the other way if someone’s going to be hurt.”  He pulls his hand back to himself and sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging.  ”I can’t even manage to…”

Deans sits heavily next to his brother. “That shoe’s on the other foot now.” Dean blinks and then shrugs easily. “I’m not sure who has what fucking shoe, but I feel like everyone’s gonna start tellin’ everyone ‘I told you so’ and, ya know what? I’m too fucking tired for it right now. Movie.” He jumps up and fiddles with the oldest VHS player on the planet. Tv static turns into a black screen as the tape cues up. Dean falls back. “Concentrate, now, grasshopper.”

Sam doesn’t look up when Dean sits down, he expects a Big Brother Beat Down, even if it’s just verbal.  He does _not_ expect what Dean is actually saying, and Dean has all the cards, they both know that.  Sam is a hypocrite, and he can’t manage to do what he wants to do, even when he’s alone and away from the thing he _thought_ was holding him back, Dad.  He’s a hypocrite and a disappointment, and Dean has every right to tell him off for it, and.  He doesn’t.  Sam looks up as Dean moves and the TV goes on, confused even as a smile comes in slow across his face.  By the time Dean is settling in next to him again, warm and leather and the road, Sam is practically beaming and he can’t help it and he doesn’t want to.  He shakes his head and picks up the plate of eggs on the couch next to him, fork in bandaged hand, coffee mug balanced between his knees, grins at the TV.  ”I need a new coffee table, huh.”

"Dude, coffee tables are overrated. That’s why you’ve got knees for a table and couch cushions for a beer holder." The movie starts and Dean grins. "Holy shit, this takes me back…"

Sam laughs.  The smile on Dean’s face — it could be the reason he does anything, which is why it’s so dangerous to have Dean in his house. Dean who wants to hunt, Dean who /over the phone/ managed to convince Sam to hunt with him, by /promising not to./  But it’s okay.  It’s okay.  This is okay.

This is how the Winchesters survive, Dean thinks. This movie gets it. When all the world is falling to shit, you gotta go on a hunt to find pirate treasure. Make it “our time.” Dean can’t summon anymore hurt—he’s so heavy. All he really wants is a minute of peace. Of not worrying about how this is all going to end. Of appreciating some stupid Christmas lights and a fridge of food and his equally stupid (too smart) brother. He’s vocal enough about the movie for about twenty minutes, slapping Sam’s arm every ten seconds because there’s an inside joke there, or 12 year old humor. But eventually it’s too warm in the room and he’s too full of eggs and bacon and beer and Sam’s hip is right up against his. The lights dim. The sound dies down. He takes a last deep breath and he’s safe. Door is fixed. Salt is in place. Sam’s actually here. Just…right here…

Sam laughs along with Dean, until Dean isn’t laughing anymore, because he’s snoring lightly and the sound is so welcome and annoying and fills him with memories of post-hunt comas where Dad and Dean fell into their beds and Sam, so keyed up afterward most of the time, took the time to do homework or read or make some really shitty dinner or did their laundry if the place had a laundry room.  But homework was the best, because he could hear them both alive and it’s stupid to be nostalgic for _snoring_ but there it is.  Dean’s deep breathing could lull Sam to sleep if he hadn’t just had coffee and if he hadn’t slept most of the night like a rock.  And Dean had probably stayed awake all night watching him, and he’s through at least one beer by now, if not a few.  So Sam shifts slow and works like he had done since he was a kid to strip the jacket off of Dean, to pull him out of the overshirt, to lay him down and spread out the blanket, to do all of it without waking him.  He’d intended to put the shirt in the wash, get some stuff done, but instead, he sits on the floor with his back against the couch, Dean’s bent knees pressing in between his shoulderblades, and he watches the movie and finishes Dean’s beer for him, and it doesn’t even matter that Dean isn’t awake to watch with him, because Sam remembers all of Dean’s jokes and laughs at them anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: [Caladria](http://caladria.tumblr.com/)  
Sam: [Agelade](http://agelade.tumblr.com)

Chapter Six

Dean twitches in his sleep. It’s not unusual—In four and a half hours he’s rolled around and back to start so many times on Sam’s used couch that no blanket has had a chance to peacefully protect him. It made its way, finally, to the very end of the couch in a kicked in lump twenty minutes ago, around the same time Dean’s hypnotic and sonorous snoring ceased.

Dean shudders, violently. Without anymore preamble, his eyes open, he gasps, and his hands are working, brushing over his chest, His stomach, frantically. And then he’s out of the couch, on his feet, swearing “sonofabitch!” As he stares. Stares at the couch. Stares at the floor. Splayed out, his hands slap his stomach as he begins to fully accept reality.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Because that in NO way was real. Nope. Very freaky, yes, but a dream. Just that.

"Dean?" Sam’s on his feet almost before Dean is, prompted by the gasp and the way he’s clutching at his stomach, and Sam’s hands are reaching out to Dean’s where they are on his stomach — Dean had been on a hunt before speeding to Sam’s, and Sam had been too out of it to ask if Dean had got out of that okay.  Just him breathing had been enough, but now he’s worried Dean’s been suffering some injury.  "Dean?"  And Dean is staring, clearly not fully aware of Sam’s presence.  He presses on Dean’s hands at his mid-section, maybe to pull them away, to check Dean is okay, to see it with his own eyes.  "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just. Yeah, okay. I guess I’m awake now." Dean laughs it off, but, Christ, talk about being an all-the-way wrong nightmare. In more ways than one. He half slaps, half pats Sam’s hands. "I got this. I’m fine. I’m Dean Winchester. You’re Sam Winchester. Everyone’s alive and good."

Sam tilts his head, like Dean is a puzzle.  ”Y…eah,” he says slowly, watching Dean for signs of like, a concussion, maybe?  ”I’m Sam.  You’re Dean.  We’re… all alive.”  He narrows his eyes.  ”I’m not so sure about ‘good,’ though.”

Dean feels a little pale, but the last thing he needs to do is freak anyone out. Not when things were finally shifting to normal. Or, at least, as normal as it got for them.

"Nah. Totally good." He notices the dark TV and turns accusingly to Sam. "You watched it all, right? You didn’t turn it off when I fell asleep and started homework, did you?"

Sam isn’t convinced.  He’s not even going to pretend to be convinced.  ”I watched it.  What was that?”

"What was what? I had a fucked up dream. You don’t have the market cornered on those yet." It’s flippant and dismissive, and Dean thinks he’s thirsty and that, at the very least, he requires a fucking beer. Now. He heads to the fridge.

Sam rears back a little at that.  Okay.  Okay, true, fine, right but.  He watches Dean push past him to the fridge and tries to formulate why Dean’s answer doesn’t ring true, or rather, it _does_ but it’s not — and he thinks, the hands scrabbling over his stomach, the crazy split second of fear as he’s leaping from the couch like — “Did you have a dream about my dream?  Jesus.  Dean I’m — I probably shouldn’t have told you.  Like we haven’t seen enough messed up crap—”

Dean’s quiet as he gets the beer.  Fuck. Fuck you, Sam, for being so damn _observant_. Now what? Well, shit.

"Yeah, we’ve seen a lot of messed up crap. Which is why you can’t take responsibility for the shit I dream about, okay? Christ." He pops the cap and takes a long pull as he tries to put the images out of his head. Of thousands and thousands of spiders crawling out of his hollowed out, mostly devoured, stomach.

Awesome.

And yeah. Yes. He’d usually have zero problem chucking this off to some kind of nightmare-by-proxy thing with Sam’s nightmare except…there were already things that were _not right_ about _Sam’s_ dream to start with.

Sam twists his mouth up to one side, shakes his head.  There isn’t anything he can do if Dean doesn’t want to talk.  And he’s right, they’ve seen a lot.  They both had more nightmare fuel than was good for them.  But Dean’s edgier than usual.  Sam’s witnessed Dean nightmares before, and this is more agitation than Dean was usually willing to show, and all signs pointed to Dean not necessarily being _willing_ , so — “Come on.  You should talk about it.  I mean if you can tell anyone, it’s me, right?”

_Don’t think you wanna know, little bro._

"Yeah. We care and share about this nightmare, and then you go off and sprout a new one. How’s your hand feeling?"

"My hand feels fine, Dean."  Fine.  Whatever.  He shakes his head.  Looks around for his shoes.  "You know what.  I’m gonna go for a run."  He doesn’t want to go for a run, but he’s pulling on his running shoes anyway.  He ties them angrily.  His head is still pounding from drinking too much and from prescription painkiller hangover and he wishes he could remember every detail of their conversation from last night because he’s not sure how much he told Dean and he doesn’t want to risk giving him another night terror or something, and Dean doesn’t have the friggin’ market cornered on caring about his brother okay?  Which is what he _should_ have said back when Dean blew off his nightmare in the first place.  ”You don’t have the friggin’ market cornered on caring about your brother,” he grouches aloud and surges up from the couch to grab his sweatshirt.

"Jesus, Sam. Really?" And here’s that pattern again. That pattern that started when Sam was like, 14, and started _going_ places to get away from Dad or piss him off or fill out applications for Stanford or _whatever_.

Yeah, whatever.

"Come on, Sammy. It’s just a friggin’…"

Well, it _might_ be. Just a frggin’ dream.

"Uh huh.  Yeah.  Real convincing, the way you just trailed off there."

"Look," Dean slays the air with a swipe of his hand, "what are you now, the Sentence Police? gimmee a break."

Sam scoffs, shrugs into his sweatshirt.  Sentence Police?  Really?  Really Dean?  And after everything they’ve been through together, after Dad dragging them around and after counting only on each other, after waking up in Dean’s arms to find out that Dean hadn’t slept because he was watching out for Sam, after all of the shit all of the worry, Dean going off with Dad and Sam pacing holes in the motel rug hoping they’d come home safe, hoping Dad wouldn’t come back without Dean, blood on his coat, saying Dean hadn’t made it, come on we need to take care of his body — after —

"I’ll be back.  Just my morning run," he says and his voice is maybe a little panicky, but he’s out the door before he can meet Dean’s eye and change his mind.

Dean feels his forehead. His face. His hand drops away and he feels like shit because, no, he doesn’t have the market cornered, but Sam just doesn’t fucking _know_ and it’s true. It’s true that ignorance is happier. Sam was happier before he knew about Dad. Before he knew about monsters. Confused, yeah, and wondering why they didn’t have houses and how come he had no friends. _Fuck._ But, Christ, he could have been less terrified. If he would just stop asking questions all the _damn_ time, Dean wouldn’t have to keep destroying things…

Destroying.

Dean remembers that last hasty conversation with Dad and…

Fuck. Spiders. _Just…just what in the hell, Sam? What in the hell?_

Sam runs.  He hadn’t lied; it _is_ a morning ritual for him, something to exhaust his body while his brain spins.  Sometimes, he’s just sorting through information he’ll need for a test; sometimes he’s sorting through some difficult bit of civilian life, dealing with people who don’t care about him the way Dean and Dad do, figuring out how to blend in even though that’s basically second nature.  Right now, he’s sorting through his anger at Dean, how Dean won’t talk to him, how they used to share everything, and it occurs to him that that might not actually be the case.  In fact, it comes clear as water that Dean has shielded him from whatever he can, that they’ve _never_ shared everything as much as Sam wants to say that they did.

And there’s the other big thing — the more Sam thinks about it, the more uncertain he is about whether Dean will still be there when he gets back to the apartment.  When he’d left, he’d been pretty sure Dean would still be there, or else he wouldn’t have been able to walk out the door.  But the farther he got from Dean, the less sure he was.  Dean leaves if Dad calls him in the middle of the night.  Dean leaves without saying anything.  Sam wakes up in the morning ready to make them both coffee to find the couch empty, maybe a little note saying “Take care of yourself, Sammy.”  Dean says things like “I don’t need this” and turns around and leaves the moment Sam’s _girly emotions_ are _inconvenient_.  Dean might be gone when Sam gets back.

But he wouldn’t do that.  Not after last night.  Not after promising to put up with him for a week.  Sam doesn’t really believe what he’s feeding himself, but the optimistic part of him pushes him to run ten minutes more after the primal part of him begins screaming at him to turn around and run home right now, as fast as he can run.  Take that, primal fear of abandonment.  Suck it, panicked lizard brain.  He manages the extra ten minutes before heading back home at a dead sprint, heart pounding, takes every shortcut across people’s backyards, sketchy back alleys, hurdling christmas lawn ornaments, and shows back up at the door bent over at the waist trying to catch his breath.

Dean uncocks his gun and stands down from the door. That tread, that pant, they check out on his “Sam Scanner.” Which is good, because Dean doesn’t want to really shoot anything or anyone right now. Forget explaining the mess to Sam, he had other more unpleasant things on his mind. Not the least of which was a fear that Sam would be gone for a long time. Would be gone until Dean had to get out and go look for him because something inexplicably bad had happened to him even in this place Sam had been living in, totally alive and relatively healthy, without Dean, for six months.

Sam composes himself as best he can before opening the door.  Thudding heart, breath fast, but Dean’s car is still in the lot so he’s there, he’s there, he’s there — Sam opens the door, tries to look bored, tries to muster the anger he’d had when he’d left, just so Dean doesn’t get to look smug about Sam racing back just to make sure Dean is still here.

Dean is back on the couch by the time Sam gets in. Yeah. It’s fine to act like he’s been sitting here the whole time. Fine.  ”So, how was your run?”

Sam frowns, still panting a little, but you know, running, so he doesn’t try to disguise that.  ”S’good.  Yeah.  How was your… sitting around?”

"Awesome." But there’s no conviction in it. Why fake it? "Shower. Then we’ll talk." Because, hell, a few more minutes of _not talking about it_ hurt no one.

A little line appears between Sam’s eyebrows.  Talk?  Maybe he’d been wrong about Dean, on both counts.  Maybe he _is_ leaving, and maybe this time he _is_ going to tell Sam first.  So, okay.  At least he’s going to get a reason.  Sam nods, hollow and loose and heads to the bathroom like it’s a gallows.  And ten minutes later, he’s standing at the dark mouth of the hallway that leads from the living room/kitchen back to the bathroom and bedroom and he’s half-hoping Dean won’t notice him, that he can just have Dean in his house for a few more minutes.

Dean pours a shot of Jack and swigs it. Shit like this should not happen entirely sober. Sewing up his little brother’s hand? Yes. But not this. Or else he doesn’t know if he can get it out. Right now he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and in a second that’s going to require another shot.

"Dude. I’m not…mad at you, okay?"

Dean leans back into the couch and it feels a little heavier now, this weight. Manageable. At least until he opens his mouth.

"This fucked up dream. About me being dead. You gave me this slurry drunkSammy cliffnotes version last night. I want the long version. If you can remember it."

No. He’s okay so far. This is the past. And it’s probably…really nothing.

Sam lifts a brow, comes into the room out of the dark a step.  Okay.  So.  Dean’s not leaving.  That’s good.  But now he wants to talk?  ”I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

"It’s NOT a good a idea. It’s a fucking BAD idea. That’s what _I’ve_ been saying.” Okay. Yes. Yeah. Need another shot. “But do you wanna know about what…about my dream or not?” Dean lifts the bottle. He’s still actually measuring out shots into this little glass that was in Sam’s cabinet, which means he’s still in the nearly mostly soberish range. “You wanna talk about this? Better hurry.”

"What, because it’s a time-limited offer?  Nice," Sam snaps.  But he bites back the rest, tilts his head and closes his eyes because holding back the defiance is a physical act for Sam, has been since he turned 12 and had been pulled out of one too many schools, his first serious fight with Dad.  He blows out a breath.  He hisses and massages his busted hand, the part of it that hasn’t died down with the application of medical attention, and shakes his head.  "Pour me one of those, man."

Dean purses his lips.

_Yeah, keep up the bitch face all the way through this shit and I’ll count it a win_.

Dean does not hesitate. The next one he pours is for Sam. He lifts it up and hands it to him. Fine. Why the hell beat around the bush?

"The job Dad and I were doin’ before I got here was an arachne."


	7. Chapter 7

**Plus One**  
Setting: Stanford era, a few days before Christmas Sam’s freshman year  
Dean: [Caladria](http://caladria.tumblr.com/)  
Sam: [Agelade](http://agelade.tumblr.com)

**Chapter Seven**

Dean does not hesitate. The next one he pours is for Sam. He lifts it up and hands it to him. Fine. Why the hell beat around the bush?

"The job Dad and I were doin’ before I got here was an arachne."

Sam stops with the shot halfway to his mouth, then tosses it back like a pro.  Swallows.  Feels the burn of it, too early in the morning for it, too nauseous with residual hangover, and he says:  ”…In your dream, you mean?”

"No, Sam. For real."

Sam’s brain takes a little break.  Just a little one, while he stares down at Dean on the couch, and at some point, he must have sat on autopilot, because when he blinks at Dean again, they are at eye-level with each other.  His mouth feels dry.  ”But.  That was my dream.”  He feels dumb.

Dean is reconsidering.  Wants to shut this train down before it leaves the station because clearly this isn’t going to go over well. Dean’s already stunned the kid stupid and he hasn’t even got to the best fucked up parts yet.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

"Yeah. Um. Fuck this. You know, bet there’s a game or something on right now."

And he’s really hoping Sam goes along with plan B, although there’s really zero chance of that.

Sam shakes his head.  ”No.  No, Dean.  I don’t — What do you _mean_ you were hunting an arachne?  I mean, did you.  Did you maybe tell me, text me what your hunt was?  And I dreamed about it?”

Dean sighs. “No. I didn’t.” He perks up suddenly. “Did you maybe…talk to Bobby? I mean, before the dream? Did you talk to him?”

Sam perks up when Dean does, but his face falls again when he hears the suggestion.  ”No,” he says morosely.  ”Last time I talked to him, it was… No.  What does this mean?  It’s a coincidence, right?”

"Christ. I hope so. But look, your dream kinda explains…" Dean shifts uncomfortably. "It started out as a missing person’s thing. Five people missing. Only one we actually found in the lair was half wrapped in web and the guy’s stomach was just…gone. Front to back. Like, the whole cavity. So…there’s that."  He picks up the bottle and takes a shot (or so) right from the mouth of it.

"God."  Sam blinks.  God.  "Just like."  He nods.  "But you’re not dead.  You hunted it and you’re fine, and Dad’s fine and him and Bobby still hate each other, so.  Coincidence.  Right?"

"Okay, so. Yes, I’m still alive. We found a roomful of spider babies. And by babies I mean they were the size of…like…wiener dogs. We cut through a bunch, torched the room, and got the hell out. Made sure the scene was clean. But we weren’t done because we hadn’t found the bitch spider thing that started the mess. So. Job was finished, but the case is still open." Dean takes a breath. "I’m supposed to be hunting for leads. That’s my cover while I’m here. Dad wants to take out the Queen bitch."

Sam’s eyes go wide.  He breathes out a huff of alcohol breath and pours himself another shot.  ”Well you can’t go.  You.  Can’t.”  He shrugs like it’s obvious.  ”Maybe.  This dream thing was a … sign.  Saying.  You shouldn’t be hunting spiders.  Or anything.  Yeah.”  He nods to himself.  ”I’m cancelling the little ghost we were gonna take care of.  Yeah.”

Yep. Worst idea ever. Confirmed.  ”Sam…you sure you’ve never had like…other dreams like this? Think for a second.” Dean grabs the bottle. “And Holy Christ, if you keep drinking like me we’re gonna end up…” C _ompletely shitfaced. And maybe we can drink this away?_

Sam frowns as the bottle is whisked from his hand.  ”I don’t know.  I’ve dreamed about you on hunts, but.”  He shrugs.  ”How would I have known?  The one time I called Dad, he didn’t pick up and I had to call you and pretend I just wanted to shoot the breeze or something just to know he was still alive.  But you didn’t mention a hunt going _almost_ bad and.  I don’t know, Dean.  What are you saying?  Are you saying like.  Maybe I’m dreaming about… What are you _saying_?”

"I don’t _know_ what I’m saying, okay? Christ. I don’t know.” _But then I get here, not more than six hours after burning clothes covered in spider goop, and you’re fucking catatonic and I’m dead_.

He’s not going to say this.

"Maybe you could help me research this fucking spider thing so I don’t become spider chum?"

"Maybe you just don’t _go_ , Dean.”

_Christ._

"Maybe the fucking sun will rise in the fucking west and Dad’ll see the logic, Sam."

"You can’t tell him," Sam says immediately.  "I mean, don’t bother with logic.  Let’s just call Uncle Bobby and send someone else after it."

"Clearly not thinking this through." Dean takes a drink and then hands the bottle back to Sam, because, fuck it. Going down in a blaze of glory.

"You think about that. I call Bobby. _Bobby Singer_. And I tell him, on the quiet, to get someone to do this job that I’m supposed to be doing for Dad.”

“ _I’ll_ call Bobby,” Sam says.  ” _I’ll_ call him, and I’ll tell him I found a hunt I think and he should send someone out after it.  And you’ll be here, way too far away to be the obvious choice.”

"Great. Except I don’t have any actual leads yet. You wanna help with that?"

Sam licks his lips in thought, turns his head to regard Dean, check him for honesty.  ”If I help you find leads, we can call Bobby to get someone else to take the hunt?”

"How the hell is this gonna get by Dad? Answer? It’s not, Sam." Dean feels really heavy on the couch now.

Dad. Fucking…just… And he had left abruptly. Getting permission was so iffy. And Dad hasn’t been doing so hot.

"Christ. What if Dad jumps the gun and goes after this thing and no one’s there?"

"Dad wouldn’t be that stupid, Dean.  He’s not gonna go in without backup."  Sam thinks for a second.  They’re trapped, really.  All Dad has to do is call and tell Dean they’re going after this thing, and Dean’s going to go, and then he’s going to die, and — Sam shakes his head.  He feels a little dizzy.

"Dad’s not stupid, but he goes into crap alone all the time anyway,"  Dean reminds his brother.

Yeah. And he’d been worried about how Sam was going to take this. Suddenly Dean thinks about how he hasn’t called Dad, like, at all today. Hasn’t sent him a message.

Panic starts to rise like the tide. Dean’s in one of those showers with the door, and it’s filling up with water, mostly slowly, but the door isn’t opening. He doesn’t think he’s going to die. Not yet. Because the water’s filling slowly, right? And there’s a gap at the top. And he can swim mostly. So, there’s time before he drowns…

"Sam…"

But when he turns to his brother he sees a different story. And Sam’s trapped in the shower and he’s banging on the walls but no one can hear him because of water…

Dean takes a gulp of air for both of them. Needs to stop drinking.

"Hey, hey!" He shakes Sam. "I’m not gonna die, okay? I’m not."

Sam blinks at the motion, he stares at Dean, he feels dizzy and unpleasantly drunk.  ”You are if you go on this hunt, I can _feel_ it somehow, Dean you can’t go, please. _Please_.”

When Sam says he can _feel it somehow_ , Dean shivers. He shivers because what the fuck? What are they even talking about anymore? Are they saying that Sam has dreams about the fucking future? That’s just. No. That can’t be right. But then why? Because Sam was _awake_ and thought Dean was dead.

_I’m not gonna fucking die!_

But then he thinks about it. And he’s getting pretty close to drunk, so all the thoughts are crowding his head. And he’s thinking about Sam smashing coffee tables and, hey, a world without Dean Winchester. Two fucking people may care about that.

_I’m not gonna die._

Dean slaps Sam’s face between his hands.

"Hey. You listenin’ to me? I’m not. Too good for that, Sammy. Keep tellin’ you that."

"You’re too good for that?  After the number of times _I’ve_ stitched you up after a fight?  After one wrong move and you’d have been dead and that’s with Dad and me watching your back.  Dean.  I have news for you man.  That line?  You’re too good to get killed?  It hasn’t worked on me since I was twelve.  Accidents happen.  Bad hunts happen, Dean.  And you know it.”

Dean can’t look at this face all messy and wet eyes.

_Okay, fuck. Might be drunk._

"First of all. You’re blowin’ it out of proportion. Those times. It’s danger. Dangerous. But I sure as hell am not gonna go out on a damn dream. Because…it’s messed up. Why? Huh? Why would you be dreaming this kind of crap? How? It’s. I don’t know. And hey. How come you never believe me anymore? You used ta. How come on that, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs, more violently than he means to, drops his jaw comically because his brother was just really dumb.  ”Uh, because you’re not immortal Dean, and now I — I lost — And I can’t.”  And his brain has stuttered to a stop, lost in a train of thought.  ”Because I’m not a kid anymore,” he decides.  ”Dean.”  He grabs onto Dean’s shirt and shakes him a little, like that will get him to understand.  ”Dean, you could _die_.  You could _die_.  What.”  He pronounces it carefully.  ”What am I supposed to do then?”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow and his gaze hardens. Because Sam. Because goddamn.

"What’re you supposed to do?" Dean’s just hit a wall. It’s a familiar pain that doesn’t ever go away and Sam just rips scabs open whenever because, why not? "You’ll do whatever you goddamn _want_ to do, Sam.” Dean pulls himself free of Sam’s hands and no, you don’t get to make this kind of face, the face of _his_ Sam, right now with those words. Okay? “You… you don’t get to ask that question.” He pulls himself off the couch. Fuck. “I got one fucking job. It’s done.” He points crudely around the room. “You got a tv, a bed, a place, a fuckton of books and some kind of future without me _anyway_. Jesus. What’re you supposed to do? Fucking burn my corpse and then go make lots and lots of legit money. _That’s_ what you’re supposed to do.”

"Furniture?  Books?   _Money_?  Who the—”  Sam stops, gets his breathing under control, his voice which is shaking with rage.  He hasn’t felt this pissed since _Dad_.  His attempt to calm himself doesn’t quite work.  Or more accurately, doesn’t work at all.  ”Who the hell do you think I _am_ , Dean?  How could you think it would do anything to me other than — If you — How could you think so little of me, Dean?”  He flexes his hands into fists.  The one hurts, bad, but right now all he wants to do is hit something until it breaks, or he breaks.

Dean’s done with the walking on eggshells crap.  It’s a nerve that sits and waits for this shit, and he can’t make it heal.

"Every choice. Like…God. Every choice…you’ve been trying to be the one to make them since you were old enough. Just wanted to make things go your way. Hey, man. What am I supposed to say? You wanted out. You got out. I was put on the sidelines with no say. You’re the smart one, Sam. You make the grade. Fuck. I’d frame your goddamn report card and show it off. It got you where you wanted." He sucks in a breath and says finally: "Sam, it fucking _sucks ass_ that you left.” Dean throws the heel of his palm into his forehead to shut himself up. Because he’s going to break down and it won’t be good. This is a stupid fight. And they’ve already had it. He’s not good at seeing Sam for a day or two and then driving away.

Sam shuts his mouth with a clack of teeth.  This fight again?  He’s shaking his head.  ”It sucks that I left?  It sucks that you didn’t come with me.  It sucks that you hide it from Dad when you visit.  It sucks that if he calls, you go, no questions, no goodbye even, sometimes.  It sucks that when he told me to never come back, I thought you’d—”  Sam breaks off.  He’s looking up at the stained ceiling, blinking carefully, sniffing.  ”I thought it was you and me.  But it was you and him.  It was always you and him.  It was never you and me.”

Dean punches the back of the couch. “Both of you…you do this shit to me. Both of you. No matter what I say, where I go, what I do, I’m a fucking piss poor brother or a piss poor son. Do you even get that, Sam? Do you? We only ever get one fucking Dad, Sam. One. And he ain’t perfect, but he does a lotta good and he’s out there putting it on the line, and yeah, if he needs me, then I gotta go. Because my fucking baby brother is supposed to be doing nothing _dangerous_ around here like _hunting_. Supposed to be all buried in his books so at least I got one less person to worry about. And now all that’s blown to hell because all the shit that makes my life dangerous and horrible is just creeping back up on you. And now I’m not here. And then you make me choose and fuck. Why? Why do I gotta choose? We were a family once.”

"I didn’t break up the family, Dean.  Dad told me not to come back.  Do you even understand that I’ve been _disowned_?  I was counting on you to see that he was being ridiculous, and — if you’d picked me, Dean.  He’d — he’d have followed you, and he’d have taken it back because you made him.  Because he’d never let _you_ go.”  The anger drains out of Sam’s shoulders, mostly because he just doesn’t have the energy to keep it up.  He shrugs.  ”It doesn’t matter.  It’s done.  I just.  Wanted it to be me and you.  And it wasn’t.  It’s nobody’s fault.  Just the way it is.”  He shakes his head.

Dean stares at Sam. And then he laughs fast and dry. A hurt thing. And he says: “That’s it? That’s how you judge it? On that fight? Not of the fucking 18 years of your life that I…”

But Dean’s not so far gone that he’s going to even say it. Because he would have died one thousand million times a million ways to save Sam. To protect him. And then the decision was made for him because Sam went off to a life that didn’t require a caregiver or protector. But somehow he failed Sam _anyway_? Yeah. No fucking point in arguing with the smartest person in the room.

"You’re right. That’s just the way it is."

Dean sits heavily back on the couch. He finds the bottle. He’s in for the long haul now.

Sam makes a sour face.  ”Oh yeah, there it is.  The eighteen years you gave up to give me everything.  And don’t think I don’t appreciate it Dean, but it was always a project Dad gave you that just happened to coincide with you being willing to do it.  And I’m _sorry_ , okay?  I’m sorry you got stuck with that.  But it doesn’t change the facts.  You and Dad hunted, and I was the family freak, the project.  It’s always been you and Dad, and then me.  But if it makes you feel better, I thought it was you and me right up until that moment.  I really did.  You think you’re the only one who lost something that night?”

Dean listens as Sam goes on, pulling things out of context. Getting passionate about them. Chiseling them down, checking the tip, creating more weapons to blast him with. They’ll be full of the same observations he’s always had because they only have his point of view. He’ll toss them with a sure arm, and Dean will bleed.

So what’s the point?

Dean leans over his knees, trying not to hear. Trying not to feel how much it cut to be severed so easily when all he fucking wanted—

"You think that was it. At that moment two words from me would have fixed it? It’s all so clear cut to you. So simple. But it wasn’t and it isn’t, Sam. So much more shit going on than just your hurt feelings. But whatever. You’ve fucking lumped me in with the ‘enemy’ and you don’t ever fucking change your mind. You’ll twist it all to fit your argument. Should be a fucking lawyer."

“ _My_ hurt feelings?  Every time you show up here, it’s about how I left you, and no fucking thing I say seems to clue you in that you’re not the only person who got hurt.  So sue me if I’m still trying to get you to see that, Dean.  That I never wanted to leave _you_.”

Dean stops. Goddamn with the Jack. But nothing Sam says makes sense because—

"You went behind Dad’s back, hell _my_ back, and applied here. If it was you and me Sam, why’d you fucking _hide_ it? And your mind was already made up. You didn’t think about how I was supposed to live out here in coed land when I only know how to reliably do one fucking thing, and that’s hunt. And if I stayed here, what would happen to Dad? I could _never_ imagine you leaving, Sam. Before or since. Never thought it would come to this. Didn’t believe it for months. Fuck. I still don’t. Like, it’s just one big longer-than-fuck fight with Dad but eventually you’ll come home. And every month you don’t it just feels more and more out of hand.”

Sam bounces his broken fist on a knee, trying to feel it.  ”Maybe I knew,” he says, a little dully.  ”Maybe I knew and didn’t want you to confirm it.  You’d tell Dad, and Dad would stop me, and then I’d be trapped with him, and I’d know I was alone.”  He’s looking at some spot on the floor, shaking his head.  The fight’s out of him now.  This Christmas is over, he’s sure of that.  They don’t know how to resolve this argument, they’ve never successfully done it before, they’ve never figured out how to just live with the hard truths, that Sam isn’t going back, that Dean thinks Sam abandoned the family, that the situation isn’t going to change.  He gets up and starts for the kitchen, wiping his face as casually as he can, because he just can’t be like Dean or Dad and as soon as Dean can’t see him, he can feel the tears fall.  ”There’s a present for you under the tree.  Take it before you go, if you want.”

Dean’s head drops into his hands. And there it is. Sam’s exit line, and he’s not exiting, no, because this time the line is for Dean.

And he can’t believe it, just like he couldn’t believe Sam would actually want to leave, but he’s been fucking wrong. And now he has to face it.

Kicked out. Worse than walked out on. Dean gets it now. This is Sam’s lesson. Fuck. His head hurts. He wipes at his face.

Somehow this is going down a lot different than it should. Like, with more yelling. But they did that. Maybe this is how it goes when two brothers get to a place where no one can yell anymore. Dean doesn’t ever remember it happening with Dad around.

Heavily he stands. He finds his shirt, his jacket. Pats himself for keys. Probably shouldn’t drive. Probably shouldn’t have wrecked everything. Probably should have just let that shit go.

Why does this feel final? Is it because the yelling stopped? What’s actually happening?

He looks over at the tree. A fucking tree. God. This was supposed to be…

"Keep it. Maybe next year I’ll have earned it."

Dean thinks he’s crying. This isn’t how he deals, but maybe he’s finally gone beyond drunk. He doesn’t want to hit anything because he’d only have himself to hit.

"I’m…gonna leave the med kit. But look." Dean feels a little fire back, and it’s familiar and he holds onto it, points at his stupid crying brother. "You fucking stay away from hunts. You being _safe_ here is the only way I sleep. I swear to God, I see one off thing, think you’ve done anymore ‘tasks’ and I’m going to fucking come back here, truss you up, and haul you back. Do you hear me, Sam? You fucking _be careful_ and don’t push me. You’re still my little brother. I’m still bigger than you, and I still gotta make sure you outlive me. Whatever you think that is, love or duty or whatever the fuck, I don’t give a shit. You do a hunt, that’s an invitation for an ass beating, and I’ve got felony charges against my aliases so I don’t mind adding kidnapping to that.”

_Don’t tell me to leave. Don’t wanna learn this lesson…_

Sam shrugs up his shoulders where he stands at the kitchen sink, trying not to lose it in front of Dean.  So he _is_ going.  Right.  Well, that was what Sam had figured.  It’s a longish moment before he trusts himself to speak without just blubbering like an idiot.  He’s an adult, and a Winchester, and neither of those things were permitted to _cry_.  He turns.  His breathing is under careful control, if a little fast, and he sets his shoulders in a tense line and his face is flat and he says:  ”Beat my ass huh?  Well I’m doing a hunt in a couple of days, actually.  You should probably plan to stay in town.”

Dean looks at Sam blankly. How much fucking Jack did he have to drink.

"What the hell, Sam. You want me to go or not? Seemed pretty clear you wanted me out two seconds ago. Now you’re _asking_ for a beating. Why do you gotta make me the bad guy _all the time!_ ”

Sam shakes his head, brows up.  ”I didn’t tell you to go.  You always go.  And look, now you’re going again.  What’d I miss?”

Dean laughs morosely. Looks at the tree, back to his brother. “What’d you miss? Every part of everything where I said it’s a fucking mess because _I miss my little brother_. Or was I not totally fucking clear on that? _I don’t want to go_. You’re a mess. And I’m not going to fucking stalk you from my car while you get yourself into trouble. If I’m gonna stalk you it’ll be from inside your own damn apartment.” Dean stops. Because that didn’t sound right. “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Sam frowns, annoyed.  ”I’m not a mess.   _You’re_ a… mess.”

"I’m not a mess," Dean lies. Because he does that. "I’m totally smooth. You actually at a loss for words right now? Good. Then stay that way. Don’t wanna go Sam." Dean plants his hands on the table, as if it can ground him here. Ground him in two convictions that can maybe work them through this. At least for now. "I don’t wanna die and I don’t wanna go."

Sam heaves breaths, watches Dean.  ”Okay,” he says slowly, like there’s a trap in those words somewhere, even though Dean wouldn’t do that.  Dad might do that.  Dean wouldn’t.  ”So we agree on like two things.  Great.”

Dean warms to this. He’s drunk, but he can get a handle on this idea. Sam looks two seconds from shaking apart. “Hey. I just need you to be safe, Sam.”

"So you know how I feel."  Sam’s still frowning.  Dean’s looser, in that drunk way that makes him either funny and goofy, or just angry.  "You’re really not going?"

Dean comes around the table. Takes a few steps towards his brother who’s watching him with a mix of hope and fear. _I just need to know you still need me, Sam._

"Can you live with me for a week? Can ya even do that? I’m here less than 24 hours and we’re wreckin’ it."

Sam represses the instinct to say _I didn’t do anything, jerk_ , and nods.  ”I can if you can.”

"Awesome." Dean knocks a counter top. He looks down at his feet and then at Sam. "Sorry, Sam." He turns to go back to the couch.

With Dean’s back turned, Sam takes the opportunity to wipe his sleeve over his eyes one more time, to get them good and dry.  Nothing has changed.  Nothing has been fixed.  But maybe they’ve figured out how to coexist for a little bit even with the argument unresolved.  And Dean, saying he’s sorry?  Sam follows him after a moment.  Laughs a little.  ”You sure you aren’t a shifter or something?”

"Yeah I’m sure. You did the tests on me last night. Remember?" Dean picks up the bottle of Jack, stares at it, then morosely puts it down.

Last night.  Right.  Whatever levity had been starting back up in Sam is vaporized like fog under a blazing sun.  ”Dean, I’m—”  He shakes his head.

Dean looks up at him. “Hey, Sam. I’m almost constantly a dick, but will you do what I say just once?” He glances at the tv. “Would turn on the game and watch it with me?” He scoots over.

Sam presses his lips together a moment, watching.  Then he shrugs, smiles, turns on the TV and flips through for the game.  ”How about a beer?”

"Yeah. A beer. Sounds good. Get yourself some orange juice while you’re at it." Dean feels bossy. But Sam is his kid still. Would always be and right now he wants to watch the kid drink some fucking orange juice and not the Winchester poison.

Sam stops, turns back, pouting.  ”But I want a beer!”

"Cry about it. You’re cut off til I say. Now let’s go. And hey. Bring some chips or snacks too."

"Such a jerk," Sam mutters, heading to the kitchen.  But he pours himself some OJ and gets Dean a beer from the fridge, and chips and some ranch dip Dean had eaten _all_ of last time they’d had it, in some motel in Nebraska.  And he gets to the side of the couch again and frowns.  ”I really need a new coffee table.  This is stupid.  Here, take something.”

"You know what. Screw this." Dean slides down to the floor. "This is how we used ta do this. On the floor we can spread our junk out and still sit together." He takes the chips and dip readily then pats the floor.

Sam grins and it’s just like they’re kids.  He drops beside Dean and hands him his beer, kicks back against the couch and elbows Dean for the chip dip while the game plays.  He doesn’t even care who’s playing, never has.  Knocks their shoulders together when a player makes a truly bone-headed move.  This is how it should be.

Dean destroys, fucking _levels_ the chips and dip because, what the hell, is this crack in here? But Sam’s chattering like he knows football and drinking his OJ and they are sitting in the vague glow of hastily purchased Christmas lights. Even though most Christmases in the past were pretty shitty, they had always at least had each other. Scrape away the bullshit, and that’s still the most important thing.


End file.
